Now I Am Going Back

I Raise My Pelvis To God So That It May Know The Truth Of How Flowers Smash Through The Long Winter.

Our Children Tremble In Their Teen-age Cribs, Whirling Off On A Thumb Or A Motorcycle.

I’ll Put It Out There: I Am Scarred By The Nostalgic Indicipherability Of My Own Desires; I An Engulfed By The Intimidating Unknown, Pushed Through Darkness And Dragged Down By The Irretrievable Past Sweetness Of My Memories.

Why Are All These Dolls Falling Out Of The Sky? Was There A Father? Or Have The Planets Cut Holes In Their Nets And Let Our Childhood Out, Or Are We The Dolls Themselves, Born But Never Fed?

I Imitatea Memory Of Beliefthat I Do Not Own.