Page 2
"Self
Portrait"
guache, 11" x 14"
Journal entry, February 20, 1996
The Dream
I
still run from you
Cold saints, dim lights.
Suffering statues with
upturned eyes ecstatic
clutch at me. Blood pours from my mouth.
The
grand tradition,
the inquisition,
the rags and bones of the dead
receive me
into opulent courts and gilded altars.
The smoke of incense obscures my vision.
I
wake
free, I think,
the smell of myrrh
in my nostrils,
the
feel of a winding sheet about my shoulders.
