The hands of our ancestors are ever active. Weaving, as they do, their signs and marks into everything manifest. Hardly a surprise, on reflection, since the departed have always heavily outnumbered those presently surrounding us. Yet, realizing the unending power of our forebears may shock unwary observers, while openly unsettling the faint of heart. After all, ancestral influences can take challengingly repellent, unrepentantly grotesque, or even divinely aesthetic expression. All meaning, on the level of the Global Text, poets usually fall into a necessary burlesque when such spectres...