David Lunde

I guess you could call it a sort of sympathetic magic. How else to explain this obsessive reorganizing of my home, my books, my papers, my poems, this housekeeping of my hard drive and floppies, all the deleting and casting away of redundancy and obsolescence, dead files and moved-on addresses and the scrubbing, the constant scrubbing and dusting and the howl of the protesting vacuum that struggles to inhale at least the 70% of house-dust that is dead human skin some of which might be hers.