i know of no other life but this one. i am the sanctimonious seer,
the blind oracle, begotten of wild grasses and lavender, the scent
of stagnation in the air. they come to me with questions will
i have a son? will he work on wall street? will he drive a benz?
and i cast the knuckle bones and give them the answers they want.
they pay me in tobacco and crushed grapes. sometimes, i stand at
the edge of my cave and look out across the plains, teeming with
industrial factories and strip malls. sometimes i wonder if there
is not more to this than faded tarot cards and manufactured semi-
precious stones. i turn away, and shake my rain stick, and the
acid comes down with a soft pattering that is almost soothing.