Because God is a Man and all our heros have deep voices

Why, with every creative impulse….
Does straddle an apathetic and yawning pause across my…
Everything?
Everything
Sits with always an impossible whore of a question
I cannot answer and I cannot ask.
Why do I write like I’m running away – like I won’t be caught dead in a sentence?
Why can't my mother tell me where I come from - why we have no words - no story to tell?
I can only see what
I am not
and sulk bitterly in His absence?