Saturday, November 28, 2009


My mother says not to let taxes overcome my conscious efforts
At self-realization, or reading Poe, Rumi, by the firelight in Kentucky.
Drinking coke and vodka. Watching the news. We are harbors of our own

Guilt. I am trapped in memories of bitter folding chairs. Trapped in winter. The darkness
Folds. I’m not. Without. Within. Ancient things that speak to me: o ghost,
Hamlet, you cry to me in the dead of night. Hawks circle overhead.

My strawberry farm is getting ripe. I own a strawberry farm. Did I ever tell you
That? Hunger gnaws at my stomach. I eat cracked corn, I eat bread from
Big bags.

My father comes over to fix the dishwasher. His hands are old. Like a faded
Tree branch. His feelings are raw. He is barren. Hatred seeps through the core of his being, hatred of everything.

The light hangs from a bulb in my closet. I pull down a box of old letters, and sift through them. Memories wash through me like the ocean. The ocean is vast. My heart is vast. I put the strawberries on the table.

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