i am all out of rhyme and reason and full of fury
and lust, craziness, something that will not alow itself
to delve into depression. in short i am totally
ready for poetry
i am ready for the inside of me to be slowly
spooned out like bad butter from a dish, here the heart,
here the lungs, here the imaptience

and the other night i watched a film on mother teresa,
and she gave herself to jesus, and she kised the
rings of holy fathers, and catholicism was so
real to her, and jesus spok so clear to her
that no matter what she did she could do anything.
but it doesn't take calcutta to drive me
crasy and less than starving children
make my long night of te soul
i am a person of short
thresholds