September 5th, 2012


I thought of something to write about but now I can't remember what it was.

It was innocuous.

The times are not innocuous.

I may look at my first political convention speech in years and years soon, tonight.  If Lula wants to listen to Bill Clinton.

The poetry that bubbles in me is a poetry of the forbidden, the poetry of the face in that moment; a poetry to precede just not understanding, for all I understand.  I can write it now only for me.  I have not yet thrown off the forbidding.