The Clock Talked Loud. I

Literary History And The Present Are Dark With Silences . . . I Have Had Special Need To Learn All I Could Of This Over The Years, Myself So Nearly Remaining Mute And Having To Let Writing Die Over And Over Again In Me. These Are Not Natural Silences--what Keats Called Agonie Ennuyeuse (the Tedious Agony)--that Necessary Time For Renewal, Lying Fallow, Gestation, In The Natural Cycle Of Creation. The Silences I Speak Of Here Are Unnatural: The Unnatural Thwarting Of What Struggles To Come Into Being, But Cannot.

Not Everybody Feels Religion The Same Way. Some It's In Their Mouth, But Some It's Like A Hope In Their Blood, Their Bones.

That's What I Want To Be When I Grow Up, Just A Peaceful Wreck Holding Hands With Other Peaceful Wrecks.

I Know That I Haven’t Powers Enough To Divide Myself Into One Who Earns And One Who Creates.

It Is A Long Baptism Into The Seas Of Humankind, My Daughter. Better Immersion Than To Live Untouched.