This travesty of grass

You frighten people. Live with it. * * * The times are hopeless. But something has happened. Something is moving. You cannot hear it, yet. But something is happening. And many things are yet to happen. We do not know what it will be. Or where this will end. The way is trecherous but the roads cannot have been blocked because the trails are not yet cut. Moreover, the prairie is still here. It is not wild and it was never wild and we should not pretend otherwise. As with iron, oak, and ballast, this abomination that calls itself grass, this is a novelty, a travesty, a parasite; it sucks at the marrow of all that is beneath us, the life of the dead and the life of all the things we cannot see, the lives through which we consume the air and the sun. What is below is much greater than the thing we call history, but for now that word will have to do. What is below is intransigent. Nonetheless it is still. Still. It is the eye of the tempest, the heart of the inland sea. The prairie lies in wait. * * * The world is large. They have made it small. The question of home, the salty and the sweet. Oxossi waits for you by the trees. The roads cannot be blocked because he can fly.