November 12th, our stomachs, bowels and consciences drop as quickly as bricks in earthquakes. The shaky ground is felt as a natural disaster within a domestic shelter when we can suddenly spy, with a sneaky eye, the inner workings of corruption under the pothole. Deep in the sewer lies a perverted courtroom where claustrophobic trials are happening in greasy leather and slugs’ suits. Those on trial trade places with judges around walls of rusty nails.
It’s only the willingness to feel the shaking ground, a result of the buildup that’s given rise to this deceptive court below, that allows us to see the way through the mess. Bricks and rock fall just as we do, with birds eating their own feces. They’re cranky, and resist questions until we offer them berries, at which time the sun turns the pile of broken brick into an archway under a golden sky. “When things are too clogged from our own excrement and we can’t regenerate from what we’ve created, our only recourse is to eat our shit and make room,” those birds say. Down to the stink and back up we go!