Excerpts of Excerpts from the Nocturnal Dialogue

There were always blacker things tumbling in the orbits of the multiverse, unspeakable biologies wrenching in the shadows of the liquid moons of unobservable dark space, where stars aren’t even called stars but are articulated being to being (or force to force) instead by the dispersing of white-hot light glowing inside you, calligraphing in the cephalopod dialect of light and color, of covert cloudiness and with the punctuation of disappearance in inky silence. Where black holes are never seen, rather felt, because maculas and irises are unknown freedoms of vision in a cosmic know-nothing void where “seeing” is not even a sense but some kind of unbelievable dream. Where the aimless paths of asteroids foist murderous intent with no discernible brains at all, for the cosmos boils and burps with algorithms and equations of faith and fate that all our cleverest scientists, clairvoyants, physicists and moonbeam-baby astronomers could never possibly deduce.

Understanding the hue-moods of the naked deep-sea octopus, then, is nearly a supernatural undertaking.

But crawfish aren’t octopi - not yet anyway - with really no exception. The laws of evolution are hardly etched in stone; and even stone etchings have a shelf life. There was absolutely no logical explanation as to why a glowing crustacean might be fisting its telepathic Bantu into the sensitive fissures of his psyche.
But that unlikelihood, after all, is why stories are told, why anything is worth reading or wondering on. If everything worked the way it was supposed to, if leaps of logic and reason were never to be endeavored, what dreadful films might we be watching in the darkened theaters of the world that we couldn’t see right outside our front doors everyday?
A crawdad was sending messages to a little boy from a creek in Fairdale, California, and it was fucking things up.