One’s Inner Daemon October 31, 2015
Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.trackback
Getting in touch with one’s inner daemon, not infernal but an amoral engine of perception whose only purpose is music, not of the spheres, of the equinoctial routine but rather the assembly of images like maenads, words raving and tearing at each other’s clothes until assembled, naked and purposeful, in union, in invocation: the earth shifts its ecliptic and the divine eye is opened.
or at these independent New Orleans bookstores:
Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans 
Floating down the river of Id
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Those little golden birdies, look at them …
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