“the divine is full of monsters;
incandescent giants who lick their gold teeth,
whose mouths are full of crumbling cities, who breathe
death and fire and revelation and madness while
diamonds crack like splinters of bone between their gums
their whims are carved in stone, sand, pillars of salt
their feathers sticky with luminescent blood, their fingers
thunderous with creation, lightning in their eyes
that crackles and hisses from every direction of the sky
the divine is not static and human; the divine does not play nice.
they will eat everything you are.
they will leave you reformed in a roar of light, peel away layers of you like birth
and with a saint’s conviction you will know that nothing feels more like luxury,
better to be blinded by brilliance than close your eyes to awe-
for your lips are always being kissed.
your mouth is champagne roses. you will eat lotuses. your lungs are perfumed and
your bones will blossom into stars. your blood is wine and you are clothed in light;
your skin threshed wheatlike until the gold of you shines.”
“Without a mythology, a novel is nothing. The true novelist, one who understands the work as a continuous poem, is a myth-maker, and the wonder of the art resides in the endless different ways of telling a story, and the methods are mythological by nature.”