Reading Rilke red-eyed, hoping some one knows something about the afterlife, the invisible, invincible gods who hobble us to here. There's no solace in Rilke's self-swallowing fountain, sword and gorge become one unprintable fuck-fest. Not even the old Caesars had a clue. Righteousness the economic health of the expanding Empire-- all else sighed and died. What final detail sums us up the way a bow expresses the ribbon's thinness, its graceful twist manifest supremely in darling, daring anti-utilitarian curls?