On This Twelfth Day Of My Diet

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment. All That Remains Of My Mother Is What I Remember And What I Have Written For And About Her. Eventually That Is All That Will Remain Of [my Husband] And Me. Writing Sometimes Feels Frivolous And Sometimes Sacred, But Memory Is One Of My Strongest Muses. I Serve Her With My Words. So Long As People Read, Those We Love Survive However Evanescently. As Do We Writers, Saying With Our Life's Work, Remember. Remember Us. Remember Me.

I Stayed Under The Moon Too Long.i Am Silvered With Lust.dreams Flick Like Minnows Through My Eyes.my Voice Is Trees Tossing In The Wind.i Loose Myself Like A Flock Of Blackbirdsstorming Into Your Face.my Lightest Touch Leaves Blue Prints,bruises On Your Mind.desire Sandpapers Your Skinso Thin I Read The Veins And Arteriesmaps Of Routes I Will Traveltill I Lodge In Your Spine.the Night Is Our Fur.we Curl Inside It Licking.

I Am A Driven Writer. I Feel Guilty If I Don't Write, Not Self-indulgent If I Do.

Depressions, Local And Larger Strikes, Boom Times, Wars, Repressions, All Impact A Life As Do Epidemics Such As Aids And Pollution That May Take Years Off A Person's Life. We All, Whether We Like It Or Not And Whether We Acknowledge It Or Not, Are Impacted By The Racial Attitudes We Carry Within Us, And Experience In Some Form Every Time We Turn On The Television, The Radio, Go To A Movie, Read A Magazine Or A Newspaper, Or Walk Down The Street.

Learning To Love Differently Is Hard, Love With The Hands Wide Open, Love With The Doors Banging On Their Hinges, The Cupboard Unlocked, The Windroaring And Whimpering In The Rooms.