To what ground have we arrived now? As always the maps are gone and the ships run aground. Each confession spurns on further desires and each agreement grows taut under the weight of implied promises and myths: the myth of finding my soul reflected in another's, the myth of promise, of love's immortality.

Let's not ponder, this is Pitcarin Island, I am the leader of the mutiny, you came before me in your nakedness, for now only your lips. I wish to cleave your other skins too, I want to peel away even the original skin and travel up, upriver in your blood: I am called upon by a vision of hips joined at hip mouth around the breasts as everything swirls around us in the eddies of rash white water.

Isn't this how Life begins?

2003:01:30 13:30 Atlanta