These lavender sub-rosa letters traced blithely from the lacunae of the genie’s heart are all misfits and soul crashers, illuminated by the save-the-world Bagua light and dark hexagons and circles, a supreme, jolly word-fest for the double-image sage who longs to dine on saffron alphabet and cum-linguistic punch. It’s a speckle of sylvan stars and moonshine from the basement of the Sinophilic mind—glorified poems of superpalazzo double entendres, echoes, and shouts rising from the rainy-day words of dark three-penny operas of my kind.
