The night removes our masks. Day attaches them to our faces yet
doesn't give us even a shadow of a sword we can use in our own
defense. This pisses me off. Meanwhile, our faces are either stone
or wax. Our hearts are either steel or butter We get smaller the
farther away we go. The tragic, like a horse with blinders on, has
lost its perspective. The sky, a solid block of invisible ink, shows
us no signs, gives us no guidance. Sure, some of us have
weightlifters in our brains doing the heavy lifting. Even they can't
know they're forgetting something because in a flash, it's
forgotten. A poet/fortune teller once told me: in seed time, write;
in harvest, write; in winter, write. I said to her, in a complaining
tone of voice: stars of exhaustion burst like bubbles around my
consciousness! Are you alive? she asked. Then stop complaining.
On the short-term rental of our bodies by Gail Wronsky
$15.00Price
