lot's wife looked behind her & was turned to salt. whose hand was that? whose kiss upon her lips? i mean, i can chart for you the roster of killers. but that transformation, of like to unlike, that escapes my eye. a change of kind. of blackbird turned to tulips, or a blue bottled become a wardrobe. the same kind of catapillaring that has happened to my evenings. less the slow twist of a burning match & more the prickle of brine, of salt water lapping at my ankles. sitting on the couch watching mediocre television like sitting on the beach watching kali rise up out of it (her body steaming in the cold air). i mean, it is a shoal. a sargasso sea. one of the lulls, the eye of the storm. the dragon is inhaling, turning air to fire within the great alchemical furnace of its belly. so things have been laid back. i've been growing my roots down into brooklyn. my barony runs from flatbush avenue to 9th avenue, from the park to 4th avenue. it doesn't sound big, & it isn't, but it is mine. satellites in flatbush, in windsor terrace, & spotted throughout manhattan. consulates, if you will. i am mordicai, & i am digging trenches, pouring concrete for bunkers. things are quiet on the front, but peer beneath the cover of night. our ciphers are unbreakable, our agents undetectable. soon i will go to sweden, my love at my side, & the armies of darkness will gather. packs of wolves will prowl about, colonies of bats will break the skies with their silent voices. the sound of flapping goblin feet will be heard on the cobble stones, & hallways will yawn & stretch into oubliette. things are happening, though the surface of black waters seem calm. beneath it tentacles begin to flex, wil o' wisps to rise.