I am not a perfect person, in fact, my flaws continue to groove deeply into my being despite a nearly lifelong attempt to smooth the edges, soften the edge of the blade.
My life story is only mildly interesting to me, and I live it. There is no way I will attempt to sum up who or why I am such a prickly character, despite a ready quip and grin. I survive, like we all do; half-in-consciousness, half-out-of-consciousness. I stumble, I fall, I wake up… late.
I have played a major role in the events on this blog these past few months. In the process, I have wounded people.
I am sorry for the very real pain and annoyance I have caused by being a giant pain in the ass, by being a prickly character, for not shutting up when the good sense angels suggested a breather.
The poem below is posted without permission from the author. I would hope someone, maybe two people, would purchase either a book from the author or the cd to offset my thievery of the artist’s work. The poem is written by an ageless woman poet who is alive in our time. She has long been an inspiration and her words a goalpost for my own work. And this poem, well, it’s me.