Who killed me?

Screaming at the brown and black people (though not today), perhaps I surmise I want to kill because I am already dead?

In that case, who killed me?

Was it the joy of the land?  The grasp of Christianity?  The anger of military reversals around the world (in the 70s)?

Was I alive in my mother's womb?

Was it crack?

Was it New York?

Was it intellect?

Was it transie house>

My mother?  My grandmother who had night mares about black people when a small child?

Am I gone over the edge because I do not know pain as teachers work hard work hard.

Here I am over the deep end?

Was it Nixon Reagan or Bush?

Was it necklacing in South Africa>

Was it Shaida?

Am I ungrateful to breathe every day as Manny and Joseph said>

Or am I so unproductive all I do is breathe through my lazy self-pity, as I gathered from a lesbian therapist who had bee n in an auto accident>

These poems about the deadness of all I knew; these poems about the unreality of Wallace Stevens.

The night posits stars and the Goddess wanders.