foolish hyperbole

dear one who leaves me alone:
it's appropriate, the waste that
surrounds you & me
the ephemera of my words
the shadows of your lovers
your bastille stands intact
in southern Illinois
night passes with its
signature of deception
but we are all a version
of that villain
myself with my many words
my explanations that translate
into foolish hyperbole there is
no distinguishable difference
between this one and that one
just the death of children
in your poems, this then an
example of your real fear:
growing old is only a form of dying
but your words never go clear
they are just added, and added,
and added, purchasing a patina
of cool, burying panic's knife
in your unused belly


I think, to this day, that Alison had a special relationship to the children she was destined not to have. Interestingly enough, she did reproduce, though late in her life. In 1993 she had a son. She was 42 that year. In October. The Sixth actually. Today.

Going "clear" is a scientology term that essentially means recovering all your memory. Phil Dick would've loved it, but of course we know the scientologists don't actually do that. Too bad, too.