Asphyxiated by the crimes which welled up from my gullet—theft, rapine, damage, and insult—I said a Latin prayer, bowed to the ground. You created Man to amuse you, I said to any spirit which might listen to my crisis. I said it again. The words rang clapperless to me, without spirit. Void of Jesuistries, they were also void of Jesus. Rags of scripture filled me, mixed with serpent tongues of Silverado. These languages seemed indiscreet, guarding no boundaries, as though the world was made of cloud and smoke alone and not of bodies. Tramping about my mouth, I could not spit them out for the hold they possessed over my very glandules and salivations. Words new to me drew waters from my body, strained me, root and radish. It was to me as if my tongue was Little Tree, sprouting from my body, opening his bole, rising from my gullet and branching out into the whetted knife of sun, bearing fruit in his own season.
–Brian Kubarycz, “The Misdeeds of Captain Grillo,” Unsaid 5