Four generations baking for christmas

I know who the dead ones are and have been. We, the neighbors of the forest who heave trash over the back fence, as if these plastic bags were disposable prayer clothe, wheels just before being made out of aluminum and plastic wrappers. Their choice was no accident, it is their feast. For example he was a sealed lip poet they had no choice, dance as it should be, no tin man or scare crow howling for vengeance. Full of machinations. Afraid of any major move, unable to see too far ahead. he considered it long enough.

remix - first two pages of Wole Soyinka’s A Dance of the Forests

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That death lurks in words too from their close relationship to the powers that be. Language as an army, armed to the teeth.

Spicer’s idea of it coming from the outside and not the other way around. That we are in language not that it is in us.