knew every spiritually heavy cool headed drummer, this one did, promise, $200 and he's leading me to their yard, and he knows I know he's lying, ordinary drummers, kids with a repertoire no bigger than sucker tourists demand, but since he's discovering his lie he assures me that we're actually meeting students of the drummers originally promised, so with that assurance of a no show of mastery, they play at the top of their intelligence, smart enough, but not, about an hour passes, no god gets anywhere near this yard, profaning faker evoke whom, but then another hour passes, bored, yes, but then, they begin playing at the top of their intelligence, and I'm recording, and the tape stops when their drumming begins to fly away, batteries die on command, and now several gods violate their incompetence, and they're playing beyond all reason, theirs or mine, and I'm writing in a notebook a crude shorthand for this illusion, but absentmindedly, against intention, drawing crosses, cross-hatched, then lightning diagonals, and then its over, and I'm inside one of their drums, pushing against its head, trying to crawl out, I manage emerging a maggot crowned Athena, to become who was there when they played, the no ones multiplying, dividing, its in my notebook, the one lost when I ended up inside a drum, and thought I heard pulsing a lie that was with me at birth change her mind