Grandmother Hannah Comes To Me At Pesach

I Will Choose What Enters Me, What Becomes Flesh Of My Flesh. Without Choice, No Politics, No Ethics Lives. I Am Not Your Cornfield, Not Your Uranium Mine, Not Your Calf For Fattening, Not Your Cow For Milking. You May Not Use Me As Your Factory. Priests And Legislators Do Not Hold Shares In My Womb Or My Mind. If I Give It To You, I Want It Back. My Life Is A Non-negotiable Demand.

Art Is A Game Only If You Playat It, A Mirror That Reflects From The Inside Out.

We May Be Losing The Ability To Understand Animals Who Are Not Pets Or Horses. We Have Less Contact With Them. We Don't (most Of Us) Tend To Know Even Cows And Pigs, Let Alone Bears Or Wolverines Or Red Tailed Hawks.

The Anger Of The Weak Never Goes Away, Professor, It Just Gets A Little Moldy. It Molds Like A Beautiful Blue Cheese In The Dark, Growing Stronger, And More Interesting. The Poor And The Weak Die With All Their Anger Intact And Probably Those Angers Go On Growing In The Dark Of The Grave Like The Hair And The Nails.

On This Twelfth Day Of My Diet I Would Rather Die Satiated Than Slim.