Sunday, September 23, 2012


I click on the pencil. It is all yellow.

I don't even want to write about you any more.

(I am aware of the hypocrisy,
a biggest pet peeve).

Yes, I know. there can only be one.


I ate a fig straight from the tree. Adam gave it to me.

It wasn't ripe enough. I ate it anyway; I had never eaten a fig before. Remember when we were in the Cloisters? 

Remember when I used to be a nun.

So many names people have called me how many have I answered to none.

Remembe when I was going to be a monk. That was a choice and I relished it. I rejected it.

I chose to be torn limb from limb.

I am alive and I savor it. It confuses me. I am calm that I am not calm. I am freaking out inside. Your mother was a horse and your father the butt of a zebra. Don't be crass.


I wonder if I will ruin it. I wonder if that's possible. It's not. I know.

I want to end I cannot end it. Like the labyrinth: we don't know where we are, or where we are going. how to get there.

at the moment when you need it the way appears.

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