Date: Fri, 14 Mar 1997 21:59:28 -0800 (PST)
Subject: M-TH: LISA ROGERS -- SIX MONTHS GONE


15 March 1997 -- the notorious Ides of March, also happens to mark 
a sad occasion: it is now six months to the day since the death of 
Lisa Rogers.  There is so much she has already missed out on, in 
her life, in mine, and in those of the other people she knew.  One 
cannot make up for irreparable losses; one can only resolve not to 
forget.  What else can I say?  I will offer up another one of my 
poems which especially resonated with her.  

                   (--Ralph Dumain, 15 March 1997, 12:20 am EST)

WHAT IT IS

My penis wired to my library,
now engorged.
Clandestinity of comprehension
reinforced by the warmth of my glance
hiding the haunted eyes.
Who could have guessed
the more you warm up to me the farther away I am,
not being able to speak truth to lies,
and yet we are strangely connected.
Oh Eros keeping us afloat,
O the hope couched in this instant,
reaching out violating space
beyond all wormholes,
laughing at yesterday
and tomorrow.
Joy-drops from the eyes of time
burning their power into the wall of helplessness,
o thou poignant glance, thou misunderstood sadness,
thou prudence of the two-fold smile.
Who am I to be desired or not,
directly or in evasion, truths too
terrible to be spoken, music
too passionate to be heard?

(-- Ralph Dumain, Sunday 29 October 1995, 3:10 am EST)



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