Thought I'd move
our little dialogue
to the front page...
We may, as Foucault has it,
be incompatible with our language.
Yet, we exude it. It leaks, dribbles,
pours from us. It gases off, drifts away
and blows out of us.
It's effluvium and effluent. Yet it can
also effloresce.
You have had physical encounters
with some of my words. As I have
with some of yours--oh, la!
A couple of Kari's are wiggling quite
painfully in me now. Damn, I
didn't realize they could do that--
or that! And where do they find
those little costumes?
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