if i were to keep a journal of on-
ly her and have nought but the slightest af-
finity for words, it cannot help but
be Zarathustra's rhapsody: genet-
icokarmic complement rendered in
ink and cynic hyperbole. if this
hand were to continue its obeisance
adoring in these cragged characters'
embrace along these pages' edifice,
the impending ages could do no less
should these blest phalanges' progeny thrive
than to canonize, to cast this sublime
hand, these metacarpals in marble, for
a beauty only writ to honor, her.
~c. 1998