Once there were Felix and Phoebe. Or, there was Felix, and there was Phoebe, both mothlike on fire in life and in death. There was their daughter Metaxu, and over there lay their son Taxonomy, and there their doggy Texaco. Here lie their twin sons Phone and Phobe, homos both. On the homo Phone’s stone is etched a heart, which pulses with the ladybugs there. From it a line of ladyblood drips down as those bugs forever walk to and fro the earth. They walk up the throne in death of the homo Phobe, Phoebe’s favorite, and write in etched lines of their trail a tale of verisimilitude. But here, much farther to the south, here is our subject, fair freckled Mt. Cone. On Mt. Cone lives a lifeless son of a bitch, the Saxon Brian. And although tough fair Phoebe, her lovelife Felix, her favorite Phobe and his brother Phone, their sister blind Metaxu and her doggy that did her in, Texaco, and all their kin and the babes they had or had not, though all ALL saw and gazed at the Mountain Cone, none, no not one, was so brave as to see who lives there. Who did live there. For though the Saxon Brian is alive, his lifelessness would be food for fame, were he known to be renowned, and is only matched in size and scope by the liveliness of that same man at one point in the live but passed on past. For while and though tough Taxonomy and low laying Felix had at a time, in life, forged at the foot, the Mountain Cone lay beyond their bravery’s scope. And though, bared of earth, the toughskinned mummy of the mother, Phoebe, would bear the scars of the claws from a bear who grew up there, in a cave, she had not seen the home of the beast that killed her in her home, in her sleep. So no, no one went there. And that was why the Saxon Brian, whose vitality was once mythic stuff thereabouts—but only to the air—that was why he, Mr. so and so, was listless and wasted as a burnt moth.

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