And it came out of a Cracker Jack box.

February 23rd, 1976

… the expiration date. The date on the box from which he received his toy. And he my son born in vows was born the day before I was born and some things take years to expire and why? Why are Monday mornings so full of contrition? Winter is sad and I don’t want to remember it the I Want I want what destroyed my brother what’s healing in my womb what my father would sing and not in words and music but in what I saw in his face like it was trying to express making love the beginning middle and end and I am a family now I have a husband and son a father and mother and Solomon a gift a burden in what words speak of desire for what is an artist if not the needs of a child who says God talks to me and I feel it I experience the love the sadness the wrath and years go by and I sense the acrimony of a woman of a mother and wife wed to the passion of making love to the earth how it lies when you believe in its fulfillment what comes from within before there was the mountain the river the haunting silence of the dead resting beneath the dirt in peace… For the world is phony and the wise are false the intellect of anything transcendent heard in the silence of tombs and nothing rises there not even the sun the moon for I see the eyes of my father as he signed his name to it to a dream to the stars to the ineradicable old drug of I am loved which is why I express a record album he had made the frustration of it he will take with him into eternity incessant as his signature a contradiction incontrovertible to reality making the unreal possible the probable fate none to his credit or blame when desires become words and words become songs all to what you serve people using themselves and each other by them this consistent through all you can remember and those who preach the wisdom of a still tongue and how I and you want to rob that silence and make it just another lousy failure this the truth to the inner life of any artist the conflict the inner torment in assumptions in you and me and what you call beauty what you destroy when you are alone and in despair your hope given and taken away seen as it is and you cry you cry like a man who has lost everything even his fear. How the magic is stolen and turned into just another trick. The magician revealed as just another salesman. And the silence unbearable until the song begins… This is what my father abhorred it was the horrible sadness in his eyes. What my son Solomon in his stupidity embraced as a cheap trinket worth three wishes.