What Happens To The Rest

I Love Sylvia Plath And Anne Sexton. I Also Love More Cerebral Poets Like H.d. And Emily Dickinson. My Parents Subscribed To A Monthly Poetry Periodical, And As A Teenager I Was Introduced To Denise Levertov, Who Was An Influence.

What Happens To The Rest Of Something When You Smash Its Heart?

Sometimes I Wanted To Peel Away All Of My Skin And Find A Different Me Underneath.

Stories Are Like Genies...they Can Carry Us Into And Though Our Sorrows. Sometimes They Burn, Sometimes They Dance, Sometimes They Weep, Sometimes They Sing. Like Genies, Everyone Has One. Like Genies, Sometimes We Forget That We Do. Our Stories Can Set Us Free...when We Set Them Free.

Under The Ground Seep The Toxins Of The Population That Lives Above. If You Have To, You Will Eat Roots And Earthworms. It Is Always Night. Candles Burn In Lanterns Made From Tin Cans. When It Is Nighttime Up Above, You Can Crawl Out, But Only For A Little While. You Feel Ashamed Of Your Matted Hair, Your Torn Clothes, The Dirt On Your Face. Who Would Want To Speak To You? They Are All Shiny And Pretty. They Have Parents And House With Gardens. What Do You Have? The Earth. Whole Handfuls Of It. The Lizard People With Their Slit Eyes And Scaly Skin. Your Loneliness. Your Longing.