This gallery contains 10 photos.

She took something of mine. To build their walls from me. She reminded me of flowers. Over ice cubes, with coconut. Milk and a splash of water. She loosened the heavy iron. And sung me into thin strands. Colored or dead or free.

Mine was counter number nine I heard. No one there what a relief. I sat to be told you next. At ten; nine is off now. Saw a real American woman. From behind a big glass screen;. It scared me to confront her. From all the courage I could muster. Coaxed myself to take the turn. Choked throat, dry mouth came up front. Holding on to my file bag;. So they redo scans again I thought. Look for space to place papers.

Letters To My Wife XLIV. Especial, excellent, excelsis. My nurse, my cup of water, my lagoon. Those were some peculiarly funny words. And I learned to channel your energy through me,. The curse of the lineage is gone,. The red pain is coming off,. The red paint comes off. Clarity, brevity and trenchancy,. Freedom, peace and love. Your red revolutionary, your ice-blue shaman. Filed under From The Quill.

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. This internal voice did not always correlate to matters of right and wrong.

Apologies, but honest-to-bacon it only takes 19 seconds.