have to break myself down with breath, death by lung, in order to leave a shell to swell with the Ohr Ein Sof, the Nur and Nar, the prima materia of burning hot angelic plasma, call it what you want dear Kali, dear Christ—I call it What Waits, I call it Space Pudding, I call it God Dust, and I have to kill the bear and babe and serpent and stallion inside me to make room for a lighthouse that spans my kitchen and backyard and all things.