The man is walking like a horse. His back is a low range of heaps, like the San Gabriels. His back is proceeding. The man is tiger-faced and cloven-hoofed. He has a great sense of his own foolishness. This is the man-face, this is the man-life. He is walking on four hands. The head on his neck is rocking in his action. It is another evening.

The man is thinking of his wife. He has no wife. Does he think his wife will grow like a tuber’s arm, up at him Oooing like an angel? I love the funny god. He is rising from the stream.

The man thinks of the wife with his mouth closed, happy like center of an egg. This is the man’s pregnancy. He goes forward with this thought in an innocence as big as the prairie. He carries the thought like the body carries its red and blue organs, mucoid and noble. Here is the king. And I am I and I and I, soft and entire. I smell of white bread. I am the black mountain in the middle of the day.

The man is getting to be a dark movment, because is the sun is going down. Here is a beast down the ramp of the heavenly boat. The hosts of hell, clean as columns, stand waiting with their lovely blades: the wooden spaceship opens its door and down the angle and not well clatters the man on his four hands-made-of-keratin. The sublimity of evil, its perfection! The man walks noisily through astonished devils. The man’s back ropey and red as a sweating fist. Strong as a highway and horizontal. Hair on his face and ass. Here is the gift of heaven come to befuddle and raze the armies of earth. He doesn’t even notice the shining devils. He is sinless, cowlike out for sweet grass, and for sex, and for murder.