My dear Ha-ha—my friend—please, come sit in
a booth. We can’t really talk at the bar
now, can we? Clamor may be glamour, but
the noise up front is the noise of the brain.
Hirsute, difficult legends are—how shall I say?—
a hairy-scary truth. When we start with
the morning star, the evening star elbows
its way past the blood-brain barrier, so
to speak. Collective mind given a head, eh, Ha-ha,
in the guise of—imagine—the identity problem!
All bachelors are unmarried men.
They are reading the Popol Vul in translation.
Sure, you see the difference, Ha-ha,
—one is analytic,
the other synthetic—but the mind
does not. All it
can understand is what it knows in absentia.
Just listen for a moment. Old Molloy
is reading first tonight.
Listen to the cadence of the Popol Vul, shh—
The doll-people are made
with faces carved from wood.
But they have no blood, no sweat.
They have nothing in their minds.
They have no respect for Heart-of-Sky.
They are just walking about,
But they accomplish nothing.
We have description without a place, a name
without a face, an island without its land—
and it all starts…it all
starts considerably before the sun.
You see, Ha-ha,
we can’t possibly interrupt this…
(Popol Vul translation: Dennis Tedlock)