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Poem	I said to Poetry: "I'm finished with you." Having to almost die before some wierd light comes creeping through is no fun. "No thank you, Creation, no muse need apply. Im out for good times-- at the very least, some painless convention." Poetry laid back and played dead until this morning. I wasn't sad or anything, only restless. Poetry said: "You remember the desert, and how glad you were that you have an eye to see it with? You remember that, if ever so slightly?" I said: "I didn't hear that. Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m. I'm not getting up in the dark to talk to you." Poetry said: "But think about the time you saw the moon over that small canyon that you liked so much better than the grand one--and how suprised you were that the moonlight was green and you still had one good eye to see it with Think of that!" "I'll join the church!" I said, huffily, turning my face to the wall. "I'll learn how to pray again!" "Let me ask you," said Poetry. "When you pray, what do you think you'll see?" Poetry had me. "There's no paper in this room," I said. "And that new pen I bought makes a funny noise." "Bullshit," said Poetry. "Bullshit," said I.
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