I am the one
the herd leaves
behind. The famished
path, choked with dust
and desperation
settles in me slowly,
gravel in my bones.
I accept the heat.
I know nobody
will return. I am
the last. Breath,
broken and heavy,
the heart racing,
the sun falling
from the sky.
With one eye
open, I await the night,
the clicking teeth
of jackals and hyenas
with their morbid sense
of humor.
"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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