a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
Say I am godsized striving to fit my love into a mountain container. This valley fits beeboxes okay, fits barbwire okay. This valley is not wet enough however to take a little pleasure, say half a cigarette half stubbed out in bad grass: say medusahead, say cheat. This valley is not big enough to contain the ridgefire. Soot however fits okay. . Say pickup sticks, say salvage logging, good hard filthy work much needed here. Trucks empty the mountains of matchsticks, black heaps in the beds, drivers blackened in the work, the old in-n-out. Say it’s kinky. Say consumption. Oh how we talk. Say fill ’er up, reply stay safe up there. . In one roothollow a dead bear. Say Ursa Minor, smoked then burnt. This always happens. Always later a blues chanteuse at the corner bar works all night to stand it. It’s all work. The bartender’s godfingered striving to pour my young wine without spilling a drop. This valley is both cask and cup. The wine is what it always is. Say I am godthirsty striving to sip.