I E E 24 ° OlTl"l january 2002 AQTS A PARABLEE OF COMING I have a parable for you. I’d send it off in--handwriting, if I knew where to send it. Only then would there be purpose, I a grandiose gesture familiar to letters, trite as the human condition. If I could put a stamp on an envelope anticipation might fly away, where you could open it and save it. Perhaps to remember it? But then the wall — impossible to scale — every time I try, I fail. Electronics are a poor replacement for script with a feminine slant. This place] where you can’t feel my paper. just say it now! I am tired of battle, the most obvious flaw in my writing — the wandering around hills, wondering what to say. Am I inhuman because I have a safe little world? lThis place] The Kingdom in light between white cruxes, ( a goddess outlined in white) she was pin/e and yellow. I was red and afraid of the sturdy men who drove chariots, turning fast down muddy alleyways and into gated straight—aways where many people looked on. A long time ago I could see fine from the doorway, there are no stones inside a safe little world — only the hot breath painting circles on windowpanes, then slowly sucking them away. Only now do I throw rocks- I suggest the rails, road, and air. I deal in memories. . ' ~ My eyes can't hold onto the pictures taken of Prague,‘ - in‘that fish eye, ' the world is aflame. I am looking at a piece of petrified wood from a barn about eight miles from here. . It leans out off the chipped molding, .. casting a shadow against the sun on the windowsill. Wasting the every day . becomes forgetting the fallen leaf and taste of rain; then it is as if our lives never happened. I am not waiting for the son of man, _ but I am asking him to come. Come? Yes? Come. Yes. H. R. Berkowitz‘ 6;-.,,METES AND BOUNDS by Jay, Quinn} I u Try-soghard lb be Light butthelbfreaks_ I maWmaa V’ I I f Smooth satifytlgpjto hard A. M... Carefully, but the ticl