Early in the first Surrealist Manifesto (1924), André Breton proclaims, “Let us not mince words: the marvelous is always beautiful, anything marvelous is beautiful, in fact only the marvelous is beautiful.” It is with this fervor that I welcome the reemergence of Caliban.

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She was the offspring of a willow tree and a river. And moved like it.

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Words chomped in the mouth as a horse in a field is the sunlight in its bones.

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For years, a broadside framed on my wall, with a drawing of a Native American playing a drum, marking a journal-opening at Shaman Drum bookstore, an opening into the bodies of the fire ants of Namibia.

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“Caliban is calling the tribes together”—is, has been, and will continue.

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There is an owl on fire in the chest of Nikos Engonopoulos. How many Greek Surrealists survived the Junta? How many have we lost to the redundancy of earwax?