Job is my cousin; I know what it's like to have the blues. I know
what it means to be alone, bare hands braving the icy wind to clutch
"The Mystery of the African Mask." I've manned the pumps as the
tempest's tears flooded the ship, heard drowning rats shrieking:
"Tommorow, tommorow, and tommorow," been deafened by the helicopter's
roar and blinded by its hostile spot-light. Yes, I have supped full
with horrors and had depression for dessert.
But everyday there is a new sun and we are born again in the dew of
our earthly mother. So I shower, shake my gory locks and launch a new
campaign to make just one more day. I dress myself in a toothy smile,
take a walk and mingle with my brothers the sparrows.
My pen shall be a sword to eloquently howl against inequity but even
more to sing the praises of the green light of the future, which is not
an electric orgy but an orchid garden in heaven. I will open the
present moment with alacrity for it will be a Phish or a shiny apple
and certainly not a serpent. Above all, I will fight to be my brother's
keeper as my heavenly father has been mine.