Mary Pat, Devourer of Information A Saturday afternoon forgetting the spring day lacking the fuzzy feeling that snuggles under my skin even if a stiff breeze blows Touched by that bit of madness that grows ever outward Some neglected dirty dishes, a broken glass on the counter, grease splatters on the side of the fridge, mummified crumbs that emit their baked-dead stench My whirlwind spirit arose at the sight of a bottle of Pine-sol, a box of baking soda I need to do something while the radio is on. There's an inner secret, Ariadne still giving out thread even though Theseus is long gone A theme of prices and seeped-in myths no one recognizes as myths Cigarettes, public radio, bus commuting Heads of the same hydra? One of the greats has passed on. Lucky that I heard it now, and not at the cheering end-of-the-year corpse list. The end of a howl a great way to kick off National Poetry Month Compressing meaning into the smallest possible space, the coal-words become transparent reflecting the world on their measured facets I am glad I do not have a television. It spreads its images so sloppily, the kilo-word per frame sloshed like so much cheap beer. Pounded into an airy-thinness, the words fool you into thinking they are diamonds. I have my visuals As I listen to one who refuses to leave his store (Nature says: don't build in a flood plain!) I watch my hand age as I scrub. I see my skin in twenty years time. I polish a little corner of the world. It's not shiny, but the stains are gone now. 5 April 97