An Angel Cries Sept. 7, 2002 There remembers a gulch of the memories. Remember what that was that was forgotten Memories forgotten, the irony of memories They're forgotten unless you remember to remember. Maybe that's why people write journals and take pictures- to remember. For the purpose of remembering I don't remember the times left best forgotten The memories are still there stored away from another time, stashed away in a dark corner of the mind, resting I don't remember God grant me the senility to forget the things that would bother me to remember. I want to remember to forget, memories forgotten. A heap of the old brickle slips slowly below the tides. Horizons stretch out unencumbered with old sunken vessels of memory I am writing. I am written. Writing of forgetting. Remembering to write of remembering and forgetting. I've forgotten what forgetting is I've remembered what remembering is Now what? We remember to forget we forget to remember. I remember now. I am not the rememberer here. The pen is the rememberer. The pen can write its way into a memory that was hidden. The pen is the archaeologist - I am not. The pen can scratch out something from its own ball point I feel slightly sad after listening to remembrances of Sept. 11 on the way here. I feel like crying, like blotting out that day. It didn't happen, but here on Sept. 7, 2002, they won't let us forget I don't feel afraid of death, but only of hatred. Let all hate and anger fall away. I don't want to feel it I feel happy that a year has passed by and the world is still here. The sun still rises and sets. Hooray.