April 27, 2000: Uncompleted circles not yet dust
The vision is that of far away places, empty houses I’ve been to before and farm yards once filled with kids—pictures set out, resembling a family reunion. The next step—a wrinkled face with hands to match and a sour heart blood thirsty for meanness. How don’t I become my father? Do I declare war on past events? Maybe I shouldn’t invite anyone from the past—live alone and never look at a mirror. Too late, I was born this way.