You took my neck and cracked me, a quick switch that turned me round from the dull pain that disturbed me. And You, another you, said I should talk with others, lest that pain, a pain of people, should destroy me. I talked, but pain returned, duller than deeper than before. I walked down faulty trails with those whose lives were honest. I fell, and, falling, found another You who prodded me and taught me that the worst that I could do was sit and think, and read and write, and I believed you. I pumped and primed myself to being someone else. No doubt, it works for some, the feeling and the fondling, the acupucture pricks, the primal tricks, the yoga-splay, the twelve resolves by only twelve disciples, the double-bind of four good questions, but a question still remains when you have done, where will I be? When I am Yours', Alls that You are, the crucifiction of the Oughts, crystal mezusas of the Must, the Am is slaughtered on your Might-have-beens. The question that I ask of you, when you have time to relocate your practice and this patient patient, how will you live when I, affirming self at last, turn you into a fiction, with me the obvious author, and that my story gives more hope to others than your appropriation of me as product of your tight imagination? Ioan Davies April 9, 1995
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