Today I read my best friend poems. They hurt her heart and widened it and made her think there are others like her. White men, black men, women with names of men, yellow men, jazz and dialect and the pastoral, all in tender little moments as she lay at my feet in tender little daisies. Some of which I stuck in my hardened toes. She unhardens my heart. She softens my soft core until it is malleable as poetry, until it can bend to include her and her bigness, ready to receive poetry and daisies and my seedy needs. The woman is pierceable and I will not pierce her like I do to others maybe, maybe she will pierce me maybe,

we don't need radicals, we need shoemakers who love making shoes and make love like Marx. We don't need union organizers, we need pharmacists who love filling pills and would dance to Engels, if he had played a swing jazz piano. Smokers who puff the rich confetti cigars filled by Fourier.