Letters of Transit

Provides a passport to the space between: prose and poetry, reverie and memory, death and fecundity. This book presents an invitation to a journey without destination, a ramble, a thrill ride, an open-ended ticket, and it maps an uncanny territory, populated with ominous doctors, proctors, theorists, forgers and game show hosts.

Letters of Transit is a passport to the space between: prose and poetry, reverie and memory, death and fecundity. Its invitation is a journey without destination, a ramble, a thrill ride, an open-ended ticket. But it maps an uncanny territory, populated with ominous doctors, proctors, theorists, forgers and game show hosts, whose agendas seem no less threatening than the intrusions of red spitting monkeys, biting spiders, monster hornets, unseen shrieking creatures. One ranges through its pages with an electric sense of visiting places impossibly recognizable - the dream realm of a collective unconscious. Its attractions are part freak show, part museum, part mausoleum. Theodore Worozbyt brings a rich and intricate vision to a world both gorgeous and grotesque, where one must suspect every detail of being a crucial clue.In ""Kingdom Come"", by underwater fountains where our beautiful dead kiss the fragrances of sleep, I skin a spring lamb in the windless dew. I bleach every treasure map in a bottle I toss among feathering repressions of the sea. A long journey of forgetfulness rounds the horn and a painter coils on my prow. I was a thief, and so I am a thief. Beside a potbelly of burning embers I drape the black cloaca of champagne photographs around my frozen shoulders. I pour myself out into the swelling canvas. The sun blisters my lips and heaves silver light around my brother''s rusted locker.The sextant''s ordinals spell the caul while terns wheel and feed. The boom hits not the skull of my microscope but the wind. The wind has no face but leaves a cutting signature. The caulk is failing, the salt has gemmed my beard. In my country, gorse runs through wild strawberries and a dark-haired woman closes the cellar door and brings new wine to the table. There are so few chances to be a man and I miss them. The stones grow brown in my mouth. Each one is a whisper.