Grieving you, my childhood,
I stood on the roof
inebriated, braying.
There is a saying--
slurred and bursting,
from lungs
and tongues
and broken hearts--
that begins something,
"Once the dog dies
no one knows
where his best bones
are hidden."
"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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