If you want my apartment, sleep in it but let's have a clear understanding: the books are still free agents.

If the rocking chair's arms surround you they can also let you go, they can shape the air like a body.

I don't want your rent, I want a radiance of attention like the candle's flame when we eat,

I mean a kind of awe attending the spaces between us--- Not a roof but a field of stars.

Am putting this poem in the Big Book because it reminded me of a time when my attention wasn't like "the candle's flame when we eat"

With the coming of the imminent darkness, all these days sins commited in light would be forgiven.

My shadow lengthens on the wall, in an attempt to mask my lies and help me forget.

My body might be a poorly written poem, however it can't be edited without me hoping to remain me.

There are too many love songs in the world so to balance them in weigth, I shape my agnst by hurling it into strangely shaped pots and put them in lines to dry at these red shot windows.

I wanted to stay (away?), I wanted to be silent, I want to turn down everything that was making- music: guitars, violins, drums, cymbals, birds before I discovered that my sad little heart is also a player in our mad orchestra.

Given that I placed the speakers way behind the screen, the sound is hidden by sight, always, so close your eyes close your eyes and look! how the sound coming at you as a speeding motorcycle powered by my beating pulse.

No more masks, let me undress, first my shirt goes, then my pants, then my underwear that you found funny, then my glasses, then my skin, then the bone under the skin Now don't be suprised when you see this body turning into air.

2003:01:17 18:00 Atlanta (AD)

Having come to this place I set out once again On the dark and marvelous way From where I began: Belief in the love of the world, Woman, spirit, and man.

Having failed in all things I enter a new age Seeing the old ways as toys, The houses of a stage Painted and long forgot; And I find love and rage.

Rage for the world as it is But for what it may be More love now than last year. And always less self-pity Since I know in a clearer light The strength of mystery.

And at this place in the ways I wait for song, My poem-hand still, on the paper, All night long. Poems in the throat and hand, asleep, And my storm beating strong!