Occult Ventures

Paradise

A humming bird outside my window in a small village in Bolivia. I wrote. The whole creation seemed clear to me. Astral wings. A feverous attempt to hide anything modern. It was just me and my pen. No screaming. Evidently insane. Naturally lean and contemptuous. The spirit machine. A perfect place. Showering with scorpions. Late night horizon. Agua ardiente. Sweet singani turmoil. A friend. Later latitude to instigate the questions of fortunate ones. Dollars. Cigarettes. Hurly television sets.

A prosperity in the modern eyes of materialist joy. All alone in the world. A moments bliss. Then feigning out of belief. A sweet ticket. Gently down the road. Water.

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