And now for a word from Ani Difranco.

The story of what was.

The light blue flickering of the neighbor's big console t.v.
is basking on the ceiling of another insomniac spree and outside sleep's open window
between the drops of rain
history is writing a recipe bookfor every earthly pain
oh to clean up the clutter of echoes
coming in and out of focuswords spokenlike locusts
sing and singin my head
and thing isthey often seemin my memory's long dream
to be superfluous to the true story of what was
cuz real is real regardless of what you try to say or say away
real is real relentless while words distract and dismay
words that change their tune though the story remains the same
words that fill me quickly and then are slow to drain
dialogues that dither down reminiscent of the way it likes to rain
every screen a smoke screen
oh to dream just for a moment
the picture outside the frame
then in a flash the light blue horizon
spanning a sudden black is sucked into the vanishing point and quiet rushes back
to search for the downbeat in a tabla symphony
to search in the darkness
for someone who looks like me
(though i'm not really who i said i was or who i thought i'd be)
just a collection of recollections
conversations consisting of the kind of marks we make
when we're trying to get a pen to work again
a lifetime of them!
i say to me now here listening
i say to the locusts that sing and sing
to me sitting now here on the front porch swing of my eyes:
i hereby amend
whatever i've said
with this sigh