Feed Me Your Fiction
Poem
“My real self is unknown. I create a myth and a legend, a lie, a fairy tale, a magical world, and one that collapses every day and makes me feel like going the way of Virginia Woolf. I have tried to be not neurotic, not romantic, not destructive, but may be all of these in disguises.”
—Anaïs Nin
The soul is busy tonight.
I can hear it planning, dividing the cost,
looking up buildings, ready to fly
into the blue soft sky like the inside
of a hat hung on a rack
that nobody’s picked up in years.
Going nowhere in particular,
And the night smells like the thousands
of people in this city dying to unfasten
the bones, drop the body down
like a nightgown.
Fiction addicts feeding in the shade on half-dreams,
then returning to the cold and official.
Eating night and day,
and they still might die of starvation.
