Drizzly afternoon. Wiping moisture
from the car's inside windows, an inconspicuous
sign id seen through
the gloom. In Forest Park, the tiny monks living in the Wailing Wall's caves inhale
what's left of the sky. Fronds shake their shaggy green heads in
waves, that's their
reality. Psychic reality.
Fantasy powers. Powers of fantasy. They can be celebrated, honored,
reinforced by rituals but they do not exist by virtue of rituals
any more than their existence is tied to the mythical narratives
them. As psychic realities they are present anywhere to the heart, showering
the creek below. The world must be
will admit it?