Sigmund Freud speaks to me through my repressed subconscious and dictates an introduction

Dear Honored Sir or Madame,

I realize that what you are about to read is neither a manifesto nor a paradigm by any means. Dearest reader, please understand that Raymond Mack is not right in the head. Some would call him sane, but those people are generally as competent on knowledge of neurosis as a hamster scrubbed down with sand paper and bleached to accentuate the wounds deserves a medical degree. I am (or was) a doctor. Raymond went into this work like a mother trying to explain the concept of make-up to her freshly conceived daughter. Oh boy, are you in for a treat, but I must warn you that what lies ahead is an open-door to a dark room that smells of a Chinese herb shop but resonates with the fear of castration. Mind you, Mr. Mack is like all men, and therefore while buried beneath the heavy mist of sleep, he must be weary of dreamless women mouthing, “Si, mamá." My point is this; artists purposely shroud their eyes with filmy disdain (silly, I know) because no one loved them as children or something to that degree. No need to worry though. What you are about to read is no nostalgic yearning for what once was, or even artistic for that matter. It is simply a textbook that tries to unearth nothing in particular. Think about it this way; a homeless person comes up to you after a pleasant evening and asks you for change. You naturally do not give this sub-person what it asks for. Instead, you of course would say, “No, get a job you smelly scoundrel.” This is exactly how one should approach all poetry. What is poetry anyway? Or even a word for that matter? A word is simply a thing. A two-dimensional thing, that is too inept to transcend even the smallest mound of dirt. Words were made for propaganda, essays, and the occasional joke (two cannibals are eating a clown, and one asks “Does this taste funny to you?”), but never art. Reader, if you covet this ‘artwork’, go to the Sistine Chapel, or examine the human brain, and then tell me that “Not for one moment…/Have I stopped seeing your beard full of butterflies” is beautiful.

Enjoy.

                                                            An embittered doctor,

                                                            Sigmund Freud M.D.