b. in the east in the year of the Monkey and raised by the sounds of Puerto Rican rhumba and corner-held saxophone players landed in los angeles no angels there weary she turned to punk, went to art school, became a teacher and then split for a middle ground where she could see the sky and brave being an adult and where she could hide inside quietly anonymously waiting and finally her own self discovered and free today she moves the words she writes out of her shaking her bones shaking off the veilofamyth that still tries to wrap her in definition
I am a dreamer a reveilleur. A loner among wolves. The deer that stalks the gun. The gun that stalks the sky. I cast many shadows upon the places of fear I agree with you in order that you may agree with yourself. I ramble on about things that bear no connection to what is being said, But it always has a purpose. In the crevices of our conversation I said things Not always heard.
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