It must be hard to be an animist here;
all the houses were built by strangers.

You're alone here,
with the hum of the voiceless computer,
the rush of water churning
in the dishwasher,
and the companionship
of mass-produced pens, vacuum cleaners, T-shirts, and empty porcelain vases.

When the earth is tiled with linoleum,
or carpeted, or made of cement,
and the walls are too high to see over
and papered with the same three flowers every two inches,
and living things are confined to pots of dirt or cages or collars,
it's no wonder we look up
and long for a savior to come down from the sky.

-- Cat
catclaws@angelfire.com

every live long day is a struggle to stay away from the pull of a mainstream we each drink our own dream the milk of a life so chock full o' strife the pain is our gain as we struggle to move on or maybe slow down to glance beyond what we're all told is right is put at low height so some will stop climbing but i PROMISE to keep trying

-- Kerry Morrison