Two  and one half flights up a home built
in 1899, and eight steps on a pull down
staircase,  enter an attic, upon the pine
floor are carved the words,
I hate mommy.

After  many years in the basement,
behind a green tattersall shirt,
next to a plum colored robe,
is my gray tweed sports jacket;
sadly hanging like an old man’s *******,

inside the left breast pocket rests
the funeral  program of a man
I have learned not to hate,
or to become a semblance,
and god ******, I have not;
I still have time remaining.

677

To be alive—is Power—
Existence—in itself—
Without a further function—
Omnipotence—Enough—

To be alive—and Will!
’Tis able as a God—
The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—
Such being Finitude!

when i was ten my sister tried to drown me because
she wanted to cleanse me of my sins. they said she was
schizophrenic but
i think she was right