Radio Mano, Papa Chango.

Hello, Chris.

Hello, my name is Tom. I'm from Seattle.

I was cleaning a house today and I found another poem by my wife.

She died from cancer about five months ago and left me alone with my ten-year-old order.

She wrote this poem about two weeks before she died, so here we go.

I am not going to cry. I am not going to stop.

When she looks at me straight in the eyes.

I cannot show her face, her innocence, her childhood cannot be shadowed by white and red destroyed.

Blood cells, like petals frozen by fake spring.

I have bruises on my knees from bowing in front of my creator, begging to fix me and fix me for once and all.

Where in reality I deserve no pity.

Jumping off of this ship called Life, I gave up steering it long ago.

So you will rip my sails with your knife. Don't bother.

I already set them on fire.

Thank you, Tom.

If you still listen to this podcast, please accept my apologies for not playing this as soon as you sent it.

It occurs to me that I am like a dog that buries his favorite bones in special places.

So he will come back on a special day and dig up that bone.

And then he forgets where he buried it because he is just a fucking stupid dog.

That is how I feel sometimes.

I do that with emails too.

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