Art, poetry, digital art, photography, criticism and essays.

1 Oct 2006


Why, when the ninety-nine year old woman says, "Don't worry," and says that with certainty, are there tears almost of relief, as if the statement, on account of certitude that comes from nearly blind eyes, seems a text message from God. Why the lust for something that correct.

The woman who was saintly and not saintly wore expensive sunglasses that belonged to someone other in the house. A house of women who were ill or old or both. The caretaker with perfect loveliness throughout her dark hair and throughout her shining eyes played happiness, saying "Gucci," saying "paparazzi," making some of the sky bleed some of its light.

One pulls the car up to the curb, just where sunlight turns the out-of-doors into a sweat lodge. No one's asking anything except a ride away into the house again, after eggs and pancakes with blueberry syrup. Only to go home and rest awhile.


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