Date: Tue, 18 Aug 1998 02:11:29 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: Night




	Night had come to the city. The sea ebbed. France knew the meaning
of praxis and desire. Mona had a friend at the edge of the world, she was
an autobiographer. Now night was here in the sandstones of time, and slow
paces to a grammatical piece and coma. Like breath was in the inside of
snow. 
	Jill cried, give me back my multiplicities. And then we shall
share the space where all desire comes.

	The bombing in Ireland made Mona, Franny, Jill and friends sad.
Very sad. There was not much to say. That made any sense in the death
bodies, around a square, near a market place, in a small town in a death
rattled country, was there?

	Night had come with its vultures, and other deaths continued to
pass and pass more bodies down the sewers. Where the dogs of terror ate
their young.

	Enough, Basta, said Mona, and the troops of ghosts past on high.
But she remembered the live ones, with the amputated legs and arms 
wondering where they would live, where they not walk and see the days and
nights of their arms and legs.

	Eating its own children. Goya. What does that spook want as its
eats its own farrow, the sow that eateth its own farrow. And the death
rattles by, as the man lay there staring at his own hand. And the others
in the morgue, identifying a friend with only half a head left. Spitting
out its own gathered cadavers. And the teenager's note, in the world that
never makes sense.


	Hence slaughter, in its own name. Its own massacre. Like Kosovo,
like Rwanda, like so many others, like me, like you reader. Et tant
d'autres et tant d'autres.  

	I have not brided the end of sorrow yet. We have not buried the
dead . We have not buried .
			*****