For Every Kind Of Vampire, There Is

For A Moment She'd Wondered If The Seal Around Her Sockets Were Tight Enough To Allow The Tears Simply To Go On And Fill Up The Entire Lens Space And Never Dry. She Could Carry The Sadness Of The Moment With Her That Way Forever, See The World Refracted Through Those Tears, Those Specific Tears, As If Indices As Yet Unfound Varied In Important Ways From Cry To Cry.

Who Claims Truth, Truth Abandons. History Is Hir'd, Or Coerc'd, Only In Interests That Must Ever Prove Base. She Is Too Innocent, To Be Left Within The Reach Of Anyone In Power,- Who Need But Touch Her, And All Her Credit Is In The Instant Vanish'd, As If It Had Never Been. She Needs Rather To Be Tended Lovingly And Honorably By Fabulists And Counterfeiters, Ballad-mongers And Cranks Of Ev'ry Radius, Masters Of Disguise To Provide Her The Costume, Toilette, And Bearing, And Speech Nimble Enough To Keep Her Beyond The Desires, Or Even The Curiosity, Of Government.

Every Weirdo In The World Is On My Wavelength.

Real Flight And Dreams Of Flight Go Together. Both Are Part Of The Same Movement. Not A Before B, But All Together.

Like So Many Named Places In California It Was Less An Identifiable City Than A Grouping Of Concepts--census Tracts, Special Purpose Bond-issue Districts, Shopping Nuclei, All Overlaid With Access Roads To Its Own Freeway.