My, my, but this is an unattractive webpage you children have created. And who might be the culprit? Never mind; I've got more important things to tend to; Gluck's been pestering me to go out for coffee. I can't imagine what the woman wants. She must be pretty damn bored now that she's no longer poet laureate. All that free wine, now going to some guy from Iowa. It's a crying shame, isn't it?
Now I'll tell you about my day, in hopes of covering the ugliness of this naked page. I never thought I'd ever call something naked ugly, but it's all come together and happened here. This morning I woke in a daze on the second-floor futon. Gloria had gone -- I didn't know where or when -- and left me, crumpled covers and all. Sometimes I wonder about that woman. I quickly threw on a patterned dress and stepping out into the settling afternoon, white sand bristling with heat beneath my footsoles. This is a fine, fine country we've got here. And I've got a fine woman to share it with -- if only I could find her. I hummed freely and ran a hand over my hair, slightly damp from the evening's humid swell, as I slid on shoes and walked toward the market. 'Brisk' is such a ridiculous word to apply to oneself, isn't it? I didn't walk briskly. It was quick, it was purposed, it was monumental and insignificant. I do it every day. And besides, we're out of tomatoes. In the produce aisle I paused, fingering the dull, dented pomegranate skins which contain in them multitudes of complexity and raw mass, full of juice. Then I found Gloria, by the onions. We walked back together, ever so slowly, I holding a canvas of tomatoes, and Gloria smoothing a red pomegranate between her strong hands.
Well, that's about all you need to know for today. I'm going to go write powerful poetry, and I strongly suggest that you do the same.
Audre Lorde, who is not the poet laureate, and has never won a damn award in her life,
but is still magnificent in her own right