is an archeology of journals,
unearthing the entombed past,
layers within layers, exposing
the true character of characters.
Who can remember who said
what, or when? What did I reply?
Who knows how long it took to learn
their customs and kinship rites
when so much was omertà? How
can I be sure if what I wrote
in journals at that time expressed
my true feelings? Or was it my inner
parrot memorizing, reciting back
for that old carrot? I learned through
indirection, signals, distractions
which subjects were taboo. Don’t call
this vendetta or revenge. There’s enough
blame and blackmail for all. I never had my
say, was never understood. Autonomous,
now I’m digging down, digging in
to grasp the last rubble of memory,
to comprehend how I hooked onto
someone who called himself analyst,
not the puppet master, cult leader, pimp,
and scammer he exposed himself to be.
It’s right here in writing, in my hand,
inked on these bound pages. How clearly
I revealed the doubts in my own words
that no one perceived or heard. Changed,
I wish I’d listened, read my pages.
