A letter written in
love to myself:
I don’t know who I
the keyboard at my right hand
and a shot glass
three quarters full of some rare piece
of marginal knowledge, slipping,
doing the whiskey wiggle down my throat
into my bowels
away from life. It would be a thing
to face death and survive, I think,
and yet the same.
I’m on the short road to God, if God
is death enlightenment.
NS/Canada/April 1995, Czech Republic/6 Feb 1994