I stand upon my wall, shouting knowledge to those belowas they walk past, unhearing and unseeing of me...I have friends join me, talking of the future, ones I knowwill not come to pass, because they...
the markers didn’t know they were marking time. as the green and yellow colors colored my hands and belly. and the picture my mom took of me on the table in Milwaukee would somehow stand...
it seems silly to writeabout goodness – isn’t artsupposed to be tragic? orat least some sortof reckoning?how do i write a poem if alli really want to say isthank you.i love you.i’m here....
