The Word

The Word –on the cold and harsh streets, which is where I would be if it were not for the shelter of the nuns– is that the Word is alive. To quote one of the many truth-speaking lyrics from the musical The Lion King, “it lives in you; it lives in me.”

Whenever our divinely astute readrrrly eyes meet (on the page).

The reason for this section of our record is so that I may share with you my word, which, though lower than lowercase, is always spoken from the highest of high places, Love, crooked-up from my heart, as it is a mouthpiece of some greater power than I, alone, possess.

Readrrr, my intention is to give you Your Marry Day-ly Wickedary Entry, but due to nunforeseen circumstances, it may not be daily. So: a poem, a window into my heart where, my Readrrr, you will see your true self in all your splendor. Perhaps on this page the ever-changing shape of a never-changing Love will appear. And then perhaps it will disappear and be replaced by another changing shape because that love is carried forth in everything I do; it is who I am, at the core of my being – and there is no me without it. I write poetry for the soul-purpose of having my words be read: by you.

The nuns, you may well know, love poetry. They consume its divinity. And when the nuns consume poetry, they say unto me, “Come, Ea(s)t!” That is their code word for me to join them in reading and writing exchanges, for that is one of their many pet names for me. The (s) is Sigh Lent.


This is for them, and thus, for you, my well-Put nun-Readrrr, because I know you like to eat what I put in front of you — words of my soul, words that speak of the divine, words that speak to you.

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