Posted: Wednesday, April 8, 2009 | |

I am a rounded gourd of skin, voluptuous and ripe, for a time
and on the cusp of the outermost boundary, for Paris, for all cities.
and end as the realization of one tiny death for the birth of another larger life.
cut out phosphates and sugar and seedless flora;
tomorrow termination of my springtime inmate.

I write poetry because it's so easy to say, dears, 'But I told you exactly what was going on!", while saying nothing at all. I'm alone in this, because I chose it to be so. When things get very, very rough, I make like an injured dying animal and hole up and away until things get better and the little deaths pass. Just give me strength, through the glowing internet nebulas and microcosms, just breathe into pinpricked nights and think of those who say everything and yet nothing at all.

be gentle, so gentle this one time, with your poets and poetic of heart.


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