Nothing but the sun
to undo me. My ego,
only wax and feathers,
falls (on deaf ears).
Even my scream seems
like a tickle, inside
some distant conch shell
of an ear. The ocean,
all the other voices,
drowns me. Down now
from the great ellipsis...
and I, a heavenly body
who would eclipse you,
sinks
steaming
beneath the briny sea.
I am a meteor burnt
to cold. I am the old sun
setting.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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