Monday, May 11, 2009

I was taught all about stolen. Stolen was mine own: words, ore, hours, breath. Everything was to be borrowed for me, and I would never be allowed to return anything because of the stain. My imprint was not a mark of worth. Only surface was. To gloss. I was taught to beget myself postmodernly, produce likenesses, and then found I could not. I refused it, but barely, began to hear the chime and cantor in the word essence, although I knew it was wrong to feel an underneath, beneath the photograph, the bone, that bit of world I need to suck. Absent nipple. Scattersource. Where the bees have bored, there bore I. Our flute our fibula our flower--the bees. Mine.

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