An Anthology of Florida Poets.    An Anthology of Florida Poets.    An Anthology of Florida Poets.    An Anthology of Florida Poets.    An Anthology of Florida Poets.    An Anthology of Florida Poets.    An Anthology of Florida Poets.     An Anthology of Florida Poets.    An Anthology of Florida Poets

CHAMELEON CHIMERA

An Anthology of Florida Poets   page 5

JUDY IRELAND.    MARY GALVIN.    BECKA MCKAY.    DAVID EILEEN WINN.    CRAIG RYAN.    AMANDA LEAL.    REGINA DILGEN.    SUSANNAH W SIMPSON.    KRIS THURSTON.    DEBORAH  DENICOLA.    GARY KAY.    HOWARD DEBS.    HOWARD CAMNER.    ​STEPHEN GIBSON.    MICHAEL MACKIN O'MARA.    YUKI JACKSON.    DANIEL LAWLESS.    STEVEN BRADBURY.  

Judy Ireland            (LD)
Eternal Graffiti
​
"Poetry is the eternal graffiti written on the heart of everyone." --                Lawrence Ferlinghetti


The heartless have dollar bills and cars with shiny rims mid-rib & to the left of center,
unlike lovers whose breastbones bristle with songs of songs, growing daily 


five-o’clock poetry shadow.  The lovers feel the spray-paint bursts like breezes,
rioting primary colors deepening as they dry into fattened words and gaudy flowers,


names of beloved cities, old schools, letters scrunched and styled, given highlights, 
shadows, significance.  The heartless fork over their inner trash bins, sorting 


and grooming their useless crash of lung-squeezing junk, paying for stuff
no one wants.  The lovers feel their inner bumper cars racing and the laughter --


their diaphragms riding waves of laughter.  They memorized their poems before they 
were born, and know them by heart.  The heartless stay in their tiny rooms, 


reading papers, watching their stocks balloon, no verse to hang a hat on, no song
to prop open a door, just a TV and a chair, a bowl on a side table with no fruit.



Mary Galvin     (Judy Ireland)
Mary 


Where I grew up
among the Catholics
it was a name so common
that to this day I always add my surname
so that even now where I am often the only Mary 
among the darker-skinned Marias and Maries
I am often mistaken as being overly formal
when I introduce myself with my full name
when all I’m really doing is trying to distinguish myself 
from my best friend Mary
Martin, and Mary Connolly, and Mary McCormack 
and all of those. 


It was once considered too holy
for everyday use
but by the twelfth century Mary
was in use in England, and since the sixteenth century 
Mary has been among the most common feminine names. 
There have been Marys of fame: 
two queens of England, one of Scotland, 
the author of Frankenstein, the capricious 
Mary Poppins. And a few of infamy— 
most notably, Typhoid Mary who carried 
the pestilence from rich to poor. 


Once, waiting for a breakfast sandwich
in Provincetown, among a crowd of sleek gay men, 
all heads turned when the clerk yelled
“Mary!” and I stepped forth to claim
my egg, bacon and cheese.
“That’s not your real name!”
said one smiling man,
and I said, “Yes—I am the real thing.”
On that day I felt good about my name.
It’s good to be a Mary such as I am.
It’s a bit like being gay:
those who are not Marys may not suspect it
but it’s true—we are everywhere. 
Once upon a time Mary
was considered too holy for everyday use.
It is a name of infamy and fame.
In the New Testament it is the Virgin’s name, 
the miraculous mother, 
and it’s also the name of the castigated whore. 
But Jesus said Mary Magdelene
is beloved too, lest ye throw those stones
look inside and study your own 
name and unless yours is without taint, 
put those stones back down. 


When he said beloved
he may have been speaking Egyptian,
the ancient word Mry, for beloved and loved. 
The Hebrews spoke it as Miryam, meaning 
sea of bitterness and god knows
I’ve let fall enough tears
to let the tide rise, contemplating those
who gave me my name.
It can also mean rebelliousness—those 
translators never sure
if what they write is true.
(Perhaps this is the meaning I heard
when the wind cried Mary
and I left all those virgin-worshippers behind, 
sailing into a world three-quarters covered
by bitter seas.) 


Mary is the sea, la mer,
and too generous to remain bitter;
it surges forth and recedes,
cleanses and drowns,
rebellious in a storm,
placid as a pond,
home of creatures beyond comprehension. 
And beyond the bitterness and the rebellion, 
Mary is no longer considered
too holy for everyday use.
it is what I find when I look inside
and study my name:
a third translation from the Hebrew
not nearly as well known--
wished-for child—closer
To the Egyptian origin
Beloved,
Loved.
This is the name I claim. 
​to prop open a door, just a TV and a chair, a bowl on a side table with no fruit.


Becka Mckay    Delray Beach     (Lucia Leao)
Leviticus as Punchline for a Bad Joke 

The president walked into history 
like a battery of gnats swarming summer’s 

lost wine. Each commandment you unearth--
hued in chalcedony and anthracite, 

divided with camels and cattle--
offers further fuel for the argument 

with God: Did He mean, in the end, to punish 
us or protect us? Are we experiment 

or intention? The president was disgorged 
into history, bad meat in a linen napkin. 

Some of us gave up. Some of us said 
let the consecrated field be the home he cannot 

destroy. Maybe everything that refuses 
God’s abstraction becomes a kind of mutation, 

like the thought that warps and splits on its way 
to the word. The president met history 

dressed in suit and tie but would not shake hands. 
Let the consecrated field remain in the grip 

of the gleaners, who crouch at the edges 
and wait, sheaving their needs against darkness.


David Eileen Winn              (Becka McKay)
This is a Collection of

what’s good for the goose is good for the deeply personal poem / I’m trying to lose five or ten
deeply personal poems /  deeply personal poems are the original superfood / doctors hate this one
weird deeply personal poem / it’s ten o’clock on a Saturday night do you know where your
deeply personal poem is / deeply personal poems are the world’s largest underground network of
caves / so cold / limestone and dark / many deeply personal poems make light work / that’s what
my dad always said / deeply personal poems are a great source of vitamin D / a magician never
reveals their deeply personal poems / but what’s in those sleeves / are you fucking deeply
personal poems or nah / the Wi-Fi password is deeply personal poems / have you tried turning
them off and on again / I brought you into this deeply personal poem and I can take you right
back out again / we’ll cross that deeply personal poem when we come to it / do you think we’ll
live to see the end of deeply personal poems in our lifetime / deeply personal poems are clocking
in and out of work / it is time theft / KILL deeply BURN personal FUCK poems / mirror mirror
on the wall who is the most deeply personal poem / Keeping Up With The deeply personal
poems / a friend in need is a friend in deeply personal poems / did you hear they’re building a
new deeply personal poem / downtown / with a patio / they’re going to have bottomless deeply
personal poems with Sunday brunch / legalize deeply personal poems / the best time to plant a
deeply personal poem is twenty years ago / the second best time is today / hallelujah it’s raining
deeply personal poems / the bodies are everywhere / please and deeply personal poems are the
magic words / deeply personal poems are a bold choice like a smoky eye / or a bright lip / or a
tight skirt / hold me closer deeply personal poems / deeply personal poems were just arrested in
connection to a homicide / police say the suspect was under the influence of deeply personal
poems / some of my best friends are deeply personal poems / but I keep asking /
where they are really from


Originally published in Alien Magazine and in Best of the Net 2020


Craig Ryan     Lake Worth    (Mary Galvin)
Home

The stars are shining through my window—five o’clock in the morning
When the sky’s purple luminescence stains the blinds and
Makes you dream of beautiful houses and the ocean’s arms—that’s when
I hear a moan—not a girlish moan like your mother might make after
Sipping some good chicken noddle soup and complimenting your use
Of onions no, more of the dying moan your father makes when he sips black coffee
At five am after a long night shift in a cheap strip club, the moan of death and nails
Hammers striking vocal chords, piano keys shattered and shards flying sideways
And I raise my head off the pillow—blink my eyes—hear my brother vomit up
Five nights of a bender—cheap vodka into a brand new toilet bowl. I hear his bowels
Down into the core of him. I can tell by his moan that he’s on his hands and knees
Face pressed to the lip of the toilet, sweat rolling into his eyes. I can
Tell that he’s naked by his desperate pleas to just die, His body scrunched
Up between the walls like a used Kleenex. I want to ask him if he’s all right—the
Sky lifts its curtains and the moon shines its final light. I hear my brother cry--
I hear his head bounce off the linoleum. He holds himself, his fingers
Tracing the stretch marks which cross his body, and when I help him up,
Fit the crook of his arm around my neck, I whisper something to him that
I know he can’t hear. I help him to bed, wipe the drool from his mouth.
The night recedes like a black tongue into the gold of a new day’s open jaws,
And for the first time in my life, I kneel beside him. I hold his hands and at the
Foot of his bed, I kneel and pray. 


Amanda Leal     Lake Worth     (Craig Ryan)
Portrait at Seventeen

The first time we kissed, my shirt 
came up in the wind like the bell
of a flower, my belly soft and white 
as meringue. Not yet touched by anorexia, I glowed
in the sunlight that came down like a sheet 
over our bodies, my pink hair that invited bumblebees
to orbit my ear, the hands of my first girlfriend
at the valley of my waist. I could not have loved my self
better: the way I swam in my own skin on a bed
of crabgrass, as I shed my family, forgot 
the cadence of shame, islands of freckles 
on my shoulders, giving to my body exactly 
what my body wanted, the climbing vines 
of my hands wandering blindly, my hips that bowed 
and sank, curved like blown glass.


​Regina Dilgen     Delray Beach     (Judy Ireland)
Something Has Gone Terribly Wrong in the Atomic Big Time: The Movie

Saturdays as it started getting dark I watched Thriller Theater
The movies were always the same, 
Something was wrong in the world, things much amiss
And the minute you realized this, you could not go back, not ever. 
A man had grown to monster size, exposed to radiation.  
He could only sit on the beach, wrapped in a huge cloth, waiting. 
Spiders were the size of rooms, hiding in terrible caves. 
These things were out there, and now all the people in the movies knew.  
Once you knew, 
everything was ruined. 
I watched in the rumpus room with its oversize furniture, 
the garage close by stocked with the delivery from the pretzel and soda man, 
its own kind of shelter.  
The grown ups 
would come to say goodbye 
before they left for their crowded parties. 
Heavy make-up /perfume and cologne leaving fallout  
They mushroomed above
Giants themselves 

 Originally published in Persimmon Tree, Winter, 2021​


Susannah W. Simpson   West Palm Beach        (Regina Dilgen)
Tao

The Eight-Fold Path is Saturn’s glittering rings. The Eight-Fold Path unveils a beginner’s guide through the Nine Palaces, caverns filled with treasure. The Eight-fold path is silent steps, padded
feet, Hemingway’s many toed cats. It charts Heaven’s Seven Domes inlaid with a thousand
jeweled suns. It is a Merlin crystal, six-sided clarity. The Eight- fold path is our human form.
Five-points. Starfish, clinging to vast ocean bottoms. The Eight-fold path is a compass through 
our Western tangled brush, Southern moist summers , Eastern shores, and Northern deep-sky
lakes. It is the Five elements, and exact stripe count of a zebra’s pelt. The Eight-fold path is
Scottish meadow thistle, armored plates on armadillo pups, soft owlet feathers the Eight-fold
​path is to circle back.


​Kris Thurston      Boynton Beach          ( Susannah W. Simpson)
What They Don’t Tell You about Organ Donation


Hearts are the hardest.
They have to stop completely
before they can make their chilly trip 
in their white and red coolers
to nestle in a new body.
Kidneys, liver, other organs also lose
their pink perfusion past
a down-to-the-second-ninety-minute window.


 To be an organ donor, 
our son, only 32 years old,
has to pass this one last test.


And Ben keeps breathing.


And the window shuts.
The transplant team leaves.
The gentle technician watching his monitors
turns them off.
We follow the stretcher down a dark hallway,
in and out of the elevator,
back to the ICU.


And Ben keeps breathing.


His doctor tells us this could continue 
for minutes, hours, weeks--
while Ben lies still--
looking as if he might, at any moment, turn,
open his eyes,
and whisper, let’s go home.

​Stephen Gibson    West Palm Beach    (Regina Dilgen)
A Beautiful Screen at the Japan Art Deco Exhibit (1929-1945) in Delray Beach


In Iris Chang’s history, The Rape of Nanking, you don’t see
an inlaid wood screen of cranes in formation flying in a V,
which are skimming over lake water that is palpably misty.
Nor do you see giant carp in woodblock prints or jewelry
as here, in Japan Art Deco (1929-1945): Culture and History.
In Iris Chang’s history, The Rape of Nanking, what you see
are Japanese soldiers, in 1937, standing on rafts of bodies
piled against a bank of the Yangtze. No such photography
exists here as cranes skim lake water that’s palpably misty.
The year someone made a beautiful Art Deco screen, Nazi
John Rabe, the Siemens Nanking business rep, saw Chinese
civilians (250,000) butchered. Rabe made safe zones in the city.
Chang calls Rabe China’s Schindler. Papers in Yale University 
include his letter to his Fuhrer begging him to stop Japanese
atrocities against men, women, children—no cranes or misty
lake water. Here, the solitary reference to war is a singed obi          
with burn holes (found in Tokyo after we firebomb the city). 
Here, beauty screens, and not just the rape of Nanking. See?
Cranes in a V, there, skimming over lake water palpably misty.


Michael Mackin’ O’Mara          West Palm Beach. (Stephen Gibson)
a poem is an exorcism from the inside out
a death threat, an oracle, a billboard of fresh air,               
news from the front,

a poem is a writ of habeas corpus, a bit of flotsam       
from the wreckage of your soul, a letter home         
returned to sender

a poem says: aw shucks, ma.              
its just a scratch. a poem says:           
apocalypse now, mutha-fucka.

a poem is a ransom note, a recipe, a lost balloon,               
a desperate cry, a warning, a buoy, a mile marker,       
smoke, lots of smoke

a shovel, wings, an aqualung, a space capsule, a time capsule,
a capsule of you'll-never-take-me-alive cyanide,             
another hole in the ground

a poem is a mythical beast, and a slayer of beasts,
a poem is what's left 


Deborah Denicola        Margate      (Barbra Nightingale)
And After Armageddon . . .         

Everything’s waiting to open.
Especially the wings of that beached dragonfly,

the one that lit on the sand, observing the gulls, 
the effortless gliding of gulls.  Their ease and grace 

over ruined dunes. And those pipers, their skinny legs 
moving as if motored by batteries. I watch as they march 

with staccato footsteps, stalking midges and mayflies 
in chinks of light, thrilled— just to have survived. 

I wait for the ocean to open its benthic rise, 
broken sediment, the sea that levels this twilight. 

The gulls pull on the capes of their wings, 
they know what liberates the four-chambered

heart and opens its ventricles. What small deliverance 
we had is now exposed like a castle’s casement, 

an old oak door we stepped through at the edge 
of the moat— Can’t we rejoice as the clouds 

open their raiment and radiant salmon colors 
the sky, calls us to worship the sun--

despite the gift of night coming on? 
Notice the brilliance of stars fastened

to the horizon. When will we stop 
interrogating our souls, instead throw them wide, 

allow them to leave our bones behind to stencil the sand, 
taking only the shadows of our appendages— 

allowing this world to dissolve 
at the threshold of infinite others?

Originally published in Vox Populi June 27, 2022 1 day only online
O

Gary Kay           Dania Beach       (Barbra Nightingale)
The Muse Goes Rogue

Write as if your life
depended on it.
Forget the body count.
Could happen in the kitchen, bathroom
forest, playground, or graveyard
where the epitaphs began
to call.

You’re in luck, you’re cursed,
you went left instead of right.
And now you’re in the middle of your life,
in a deep dark wood
where Virgil’s searching for a map
Columbus lost.

You’re back at home,
with leaking pipes and startled walls.
Your mortgage sleeping on the couch
and in the fridge a cucumber that speaks in tongues.

Someone’s knocking on the door--
a saint, a criminal, plumber
pedophile, a nun.

Let them in, let them in. 
You have no choice.
​

Howard Debs       Palm Beach Gardens           (Geoffrey Philp)
Dorian Before, During, After

    “They worry about the silliest things, a little bit of wind”
            —patron exiting the Brooklyn Bagel eatery, pre-storm, Palm Beach Gardens, Florida

Her name is Lauren. She played her part.
More about that later. Humans give everything
names. Wednesday August 28: I’m putting up
the metal garage door center brace—a gaping chasm
if breached therefore it’s fortified like a medieval castle
entry with its massive wooden gates fronted by its portcullis
(a vast iron grille to thwart storming by battering rams)
I’m not yet thinking I might die. I’m thinking of Dorian
columns (bearing the most weight ancient builders
used them at the base of buildings). I’m thinking
that Dorian will be ripped apart by the mountainous
terrain of Hispaniola. Thursday August 29: I’m putting up
the heavy galvanized steel shutters I invested in long ago
to cover all the windows and sliding glass doors. Friday August 30:
I’m bringing in all the furniture from the patio; anything
can be a missile even the small stone birdbath marking the
spot where we buried the container of our cat’s remains when she died
of natural causes many years ago. I’m thinking it’s coming our way.
Saturday August 31: I’m helping put up shutters at
my younger daughter’s place; a first responder with Palm
Beach County Fire Rescue, she’s activated at Emergency
Headquarters as of 7 a.m. the next day. The plan is we’ll head
to her house, it’s newer construction, post-Andrew, up-to-code.
One of her twins, eleven years old, complains it’s dark inside
with all the windows covered. I’m thinking this will be the worst storm
to hit our area in 45 years since we moved to Florida for the
sea and sun of it. I later find out about the Labor Day hurricane
of 1935 and its 185 mile-an-hour winds. Sunday September 1:
I’m clinging to our only hope, waiting for The Turn.
(The Bermuda High came and retreated, leaving a smidgen
of room for the hurricane to skirt the coast, a low-pressure
trough coming down from the Midwest coaxing it along
if it reached us in time). Monday September 2: I’m packing
to leave my home. I’m thinking living generates lots of stuff,
as George Carlin used to joke (“If you didn’t have so much stuff,
you wouldn’t need a house, you could just walk around all the time.”)--
I’m thinking I could lose it all, my stuff. The Hebrew Daily Prayers with
English translations passed down through generations take it or leave it?
The old black and white photo of Grandpa Eddie in front of his
haberdashery on Broadway in Chicago take it or leave it?
The leather-bound Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects by Hume,
1769 edition take it or leave it? Tuesday September 3: I’m reading
the latest Facebook post from my son-in-law, a local high school
history teacher with a passion for storm prediction. He previously
posted about his former student Lauren, now a meteorologist flying
on a hurricane hunter plane to gather data. Dorian is stalled.
We’re all still waiting for The Turn. The delay is maddening with
possible devastating result (meme being circulated online: Dorian
is just like a Florida snowbird. It moves 1 mile an hour, can’t pick a lane
and has no idea when to turn). Finally the 6z models, known as spaghetti
plots show movement to the northwest. Confidence is high that we will see
minimal effects. I call around, the big chain restaurants are closed but
a local diner opened and so instead of eating Sterno-heated instant oatmeal
we went out on the town. The place was packed with weary folks abuzz about
our salvation and the tragedy in the Bahamas 90 miles away. A fellow at
the next table was insisting we send all donations only to Christian-based charities.
I resisted a demurral. Wednesday September 4: I’m thinking I’m over the mileage for
an oil change on the new car; an email arrives from the dealer reading
“With Dorian behind us we’re here for all your automotive needs.”
I’m thinking of Dorian Gray, the novel.

Originally published in Brown Bag, Issue 1

Afterword--
Three things: 1). A number of years ago, in the Michigan Quarterly Review a group of literary luminaries joined the fray in a series of seven articles about writing Holocaust poetry. Alicia Ostriker had this to say, “Writing is what poets do about trauma. We try to come to grips with what threatens to make us crazy, by surrounding it with language.” 2). When my older daughter, now a public school special education resource specialist started her undergraduate career at Florida State in Tallahassee, the parents were treated to a lecture to show the kind of thing the students would be experiencing. The history professor involved propounded a theory which is both profound and difficult involving a meta-analysis approach asserting that all events, devastating hurricanes included, have positive outcomes if viewed in a larger context. The point of view is hard to reconcile. 3). Climate change is an existential threat, yet, as with Dorian Gray, collectively we have given away our future in exchange for the enjoyments of the moment.


Howard Camner       Miami.    (Geoffrey Philp)
The Screamer

The Screamer stands stone still
right in front of the grocery store
He watches you approach
like a predator eyeing his prey
He licks his chops and drools on his shoes

If you ignore him
he won't bother you
but if you make eye contact
you just crossed the line

He opens his mouth three feet wide
and screams so loud
you have to put your hands over your ears

and when you do 
he rifles through your pockets
to take what he finds
and just for fun;
just for the hell of it,
he sucks out your soul
and wears it as a cape


Yuki Jackson     Tampa             (Dustin Brookshire)
Katara  (for real)                     


I am the One 
who brought the great flood 
of warriors onto your shore–
roaring, majestic life from the Motherland, 
hear that rumble–
our gale force winds have broke the chains, 
see it all come rushing as change–
so fast best believe that’s whiplash 
on behalf of the ancestors–
in fact we are them–

you see the energy stored 
from all the injustice we bore 
only passed on–
isn’t bending blood 
just like bending water?
the avatar of God, call me Katara

truth is, we began at the bottom–
in that space so dark and deep, 
we couldn’t be seen–
the only light is produced from our own heads, 
projected in third eye position–

it is here where pressure is most profound, 
where we make our way through the rhythm of sound, 
manifesting waves from our vibration–
this is what it means to sea deeply, 
that bass throbbing as pulse that begins tsunami–
born from the underground, 
that place closest to the core, 
creating waves as crescendo, 
following lines that lead us to the peak 
above that mountain in the distance–

you know energy travels as spirals, 
winding up like a cork to pop the top off this bottle, 
shaken up, this blood we drink to form our sanctity–
isn’t it once there was no word for the color blue, 
so we called the sea “blood”–
like the stream we laid the beat upon, 
with enough room to lay our verses 
and move the masses 
even before we perform–

this means the mass we gained 
has been invisible–
but it's been stacking up, 
all this pressure, 
all this attempt to hold us down 
has only made us stronger–

no we are not woke, 
we are awake, 
as in a wake, 
as in those ocean waves created 
when a vessel moves through a medium, 
as in the medium cannot be compressed, 
as in this wake cannot be suppressed, 
as in the wake when we gather 
to pay respects to the dead with their body present–
I am that body who gave all this labor–
“what life through yonder water breaks?” 

this is the real Genesis, 
meaning these are the generations, 
a generator cord pumping through these children, 
aka warriors, 
best believe these MC’s came out by the dozen–
you can’t fade the mother of all creation, 
the original, the source, 
follow me and you’ll find your birth–
to return to that side we lost, 
making us complete 
in this narrative of human history– 

we are the evolution, 
the new branch in the story–
but in order to understand life, 
you must reckon with your birth–

even Hokusai couldn’t imagine 
what was coming–

born as arsenal to seal our fate, 
best believe I came to slay–
and here I will deliver the arc–
not as in a ship to escape, 
as in we ARE the great flood–
like the arc in my arm raised 
as they bow to my power–

I am the Great Wave Off Kanagawa, 
I’m atomic, I’m nuclear–
and now we’re in the delivery room–
you wanna know how the universe began? 
One word: BOOM


Originally published in Creative Loafing Tampa Bay.


Daniel Lawless              St. Petersberg                   (Steve Kronen)  
Freudenschreck

Freudenschreck, or “intense pleasure-fright“—leave it to the Germans  
To coin a word for the fleeting sense of being seized
By such an inexplicable joy it verges on terror.
Or maybe it’s inexplicable terror pretending to be joy.
Also, a physical phenomenon: neurologists say the amygdala
Glows red as a jack ball whether subjects gaze at images of planetesimals or gallows.
Picture a joyride, the Appalachian pin-brides of Eugene Meatyard. Put yourself in the shoes
Of Aiyana Clemmons, 44, of Peru, Indiana, a long-time congregant of the End Days
Christian Church according to the Gazette, who may have had a seizure
That caused her to “shiver all over” although another passerby reported
Hearing her shout “Praise Him!” or “Praise God!” before “she sort of rocked him”
Before casting that beautiful child into that cold river.


Steven Bradbury        Melrose       (Danny Lawless)
On the Eros of Their Conversation

If this is where we make our bed, he mused,
apropos of nothing they had said
but in answer to the latent question 
around which they had played for hours like children 
let from school, as they reveled in their near-
animal pleasure in the rough and tumble 
of each other’s conversation, so be it, 
for is this not love’s sweetest part? The gentle 
art of letting your hair down over a verbal 
pratfall, of falling into the arms of a ribald pun,
of peeling the layers off a juicy allusion that leaves 
you lying in such a state of linguistic undress 
that you begin to wonder where this talk will 
take you, when all the words are finally gone.

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