I'm not a fiction reader. I spend so much time in self-help and business management books that I have little time for fiction. But then, your life becomes repetitive. You start wondering if you are missing out on something, but I know better. It's just my mind playing tricks on me. I cracked open My Dream of You in Hastings (fairly large bookstore)and read one page and left the world for a moment. Kathleen de Burca. I became Kathleen de Burca or maybe I had lived her life and knew why she was asking "those" questions? So I continue with her story, lying with her on the psychiatrist's couch. I stopped today at the end of chapter 1.(p.22)
 

I purchased a novel yesterday,
scavenging through the discount racks at Hastings,
some books jumping out at me. First, whip by maggie mayhew
catching my eye, an eye focusing
on a beater loaded with butter cream,
hurling me back
to a day I sat in a corner
jamming my finger
into a Betty Crocker container,
scooping heaping mouthfuls
of off-white pillows of icing,
curing my rejection
by a man that I deemed full of promise.

Infatuation slaps me again,
embedding in my mind at The Spanish Village,
some passions springing into me. Next, the novel purchased
clicking a tumbler, a tumbler fingering
on a woman filled with wet dreams,
heaving me back
to a night I lay in my lover's bed
squeezing my legs
around fanny pillows,
cooing massing moans
of unfulfilled lust of whipping,
healing my infatuation
of a man that I deem full of promise.