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Crossed Boundariessm.jpg


July 13





I came into these rooms with a mixed mental make-up and a polluted physical chemistry.  I have been transformed but only into tiny droplets.  The drops are not dramatic but the process is.  Distillation of my thinking is a powerful thing.  A volatile act of concentration takes place as my brain boils over and the sane is separated from the profane.  Purity is a spiritual gift, the result of vaporizing my old thoughts.  Many times the night distills the dew and I am quickly refreshed; other times I must cook for quite a while.



Exact a toll for crossed boundaries.









It is safe for the houses to sleep in the streets,

but not for me.

I cannot follow that which is so right and regular

for mundane things.

I am a jagged piece and it is hard for me

to find my place.


The sun comes though everyone’s windows

and peeks around the blinds left down.

I must mind my manners

and not be a nuisance or a bother;

draw no undue attention to my brightness

carry a basket to hide it in.


And while every river can drown its sorrows

in the rush of the downhill sweep to the sea.

I must stand here stock cold sober

and bear the pain appointed to me.