This feeling also, that if I don’t write the poems, and write this blog, and take the pictures, that, essentially,if I am not looked at, I won’t really exist. I suppose I need to talk to John Berger about that.
I’m not really here
except for the glowing red light
under my arm
Nothing foriegnn bodie p. 32
A voice resonates in my throat,
so i suppose it’s mine.
“Cats and Doves” foriegnn bodie, p. 54