Leone ceci est mon vin

Habitude is a wolf that will devour everything.
Our work. Our clothes. Our things.
The people we love. The taste of wine.

How to recover the feeling of life?
How to feel things, to make stones stones?

Make things unfamiliar again. Make them remote, even estranged.
Show things as they are perceived.
Not as they are known.

I put my head inside the vat the light the sharp glow of aluminum the yellowish softness of fiberglass like the inside of a beehive of a belly I saw the blood of the grapes flow against the cold metal against your legs the pristine white material I saw your body descend into the vat sinking into the dregs your legs disappearing reappearing at the surface of a hot mortal magma I saw earthquakes of fruit minute tremors I saw you disappear into this matrix primeval spring I saw you too like a convict chained to his labor his punishment his pain your body bending to the rhythm of the machines one that turns one that pulls one that grinds one that leads away I saw your legs cut and bits of you disappear sinking and rising again to the surface maimed I saw these pieces of you as a libation wolves feast and you adrift caught in the machinery the black grapes like a swarm trapping you taking root in your face hooking unto your throat the barren table

the last supper

This is my wine.