Wednesday, August 23, 2000


We erected silos of concrete and steel where once stood a tree of forgiveness. The branches we hacked to pieces, chopping the precious wood to bits to feed the flames of our discontent. We wrote bad poetry and called it love. We had kinky sex and called it love. Now we love nothing but the silos dotting the wastelands of our unforgiving souls.

Parched and dry am I like Texas, 53 days without rain. Fifty-three days ago I was led out to the garden behind the house to breathe fresh air and pick ripe berries to heal my soul and bad allergies. My allergies got better.

And we still write bad poetry. :)

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