Introduction

i could tell you that i like a spring breeze breathing thru my hair. Or that the laughter of children cascades over me as would a tropical waterfall. i could even tell you that the love of awakening upon a volcanic sunrise whilst entwined w/ a sleeping lover sends me aflutter upon crystal wings of rapture...but then i would be nothing more than a harbinger of lies, left to tongue my own sourness.
Henry Miller would be proud. For when i am not thinking of poetry, or abhorrence (i am incapable of divorcing the two), i am thinking about cock & cunt meeting one another.
i cannot go anywhere w/out a look of irritation, of derision,of the utmost suspicion, & i cannot figure out why.
Perhaps, tho, my better half tells me, is that the past shines thru much like a polished coin, more so then the acted self; that,perhaps, my better half goes on, the acted self is actually less translucent then that self believes.
i refuse to own mirrors, thus have never had a decent look at myself.
As a naked eye cracks a mystery sewn underneath waves of rippling flesh, a flash, a crack of doom or light, i find myself in needing to mouth the truth, to clink my teeth to the notes which have always criminaled away from me, & sing.
For who wants to be such a harbinger to a self who wants the sun but supposes in the moon's darkened fairy-tales?
But then again, who just wants to sing?