It doesn't matter to whom the viscera go, but rather whom holds that quill which might dribble the ink of record. To the far from pacific, to say nothing of rested, in Heaven, this sad burden of History has passed to the hands of their children: us. As with most things inherited: beauty, health, wealth, intelligence... the gifted can hold readily their privilege, but make of mockery of its use. A rich man will spend a dollar in pleasure no more readily than he will stroke his fancy clothes, like a pet, all weekend. He can be forgiven what he has forgotten: he lives in the base of his brain. A thousand dollar palace of withdrawl: only to return when, Jesus willing, his thrill is gone. How sharp the stony floor of the beach, where, the ecstatic comber plays. How heavy the ectoplasmic hand of his ancestors: yet his excuse is at hand, for father, mother, grandmother, uncle; soon, he will be dead like you.
There the monolith of innocence. No touch to crumble it's mortar. No mark, even, of the craftsman, or woman. Simply the blank cry of hunger, the curdling scream of abandonment. How we sophists smile as we remember a time when we could look away from the edifice of our making: our grizzled sculpture scraped with paw marks of atonement. Do we stand, so marked, to any account? From the eye of science we're but vessels/ from the eye of religion the serfs of both king and our nature/ from the eye of our experience we dance through the silent questions of our bodies constant song. "How are you doing?" to another. Awaiting an answer from the self.