Songs of Milkweed

                        A LETTER TO THE READER

      These "Songs Of Milkweed" are surely more benedictive than those in the prior text, but as the author,  can surely say that there are less painful exploits, however, there equally manifest more imaginative descriptions concerning my life's terrors and bouts of hideous atrocities and beglect.

      At the age of sixteen in 1983, things had not been going too well, as was the daily morn concerning myself, hence the only thing I had chosen to do was to attempt to try and open myself up to actual isolated circumstances which had thusly taken their place at St. Ann's Home in Methuen, Massachusetts from 1973-1980. Hee discrepancies were numerous and indeed plentiful, but so was the secretive plights I had to silent withhol like a "good little gorl" so I would not receive more punnishments from my parents. Again, as well as known and understood, I was a complete shut-in, and was isolated from all the world, and not a single soul would so much as ever reach out a shaky hand to assist in the most mundane manner; like a leper who was innocent of any form of crime, as the only so called "crime" was hhis or her disease. Well, as equally known from previous words, this is exactly how I was treated by all of man's highly imperfect and flawed society who plays the Almighty, which again I have so numerously stated, "a dangerous game to play for anyone-this playing the role of God."

      Abandoned long, long ago by everyone, including the school system, my family, save for my Grandparents, who were Grandma Daisy and Grandpa Chet, my mother's parents who owned the "camp," and my Grandma Hazel and Grandpa Albert, who were my Dad's parents and lived on Earle Street in Brockton, as I briefly mentioned them in my small narrative entitled, "My Little Green Rocking Chair." Forever mourning for the life I had never lead, but equally for the childhood, although was often interjected with hazy and sometimes vivid images of joy and happiness with my younger brother, as well as with close friends at St. Ann's, I never really had, as more advantages were taken away rather than handed out. The scenes of horriffic loneliness and perpetuated isolation, which only caused me to delve inward more and more, but unlike my peers who would otherwise be drawn to doing illegal drug and the like, I rather sought a more permanent relation with our Lord and Savior, jesus the Christ, and his Heavenly Father, and of course, with Mary, the virgin Mother of God, as I have known them personally all throughout my harrowing and extremely depressing life. This was surely a life that was not in the slightest, destined for joy, which would otherwise reach anywhere beyond the religious side of it, as this surely is the truth anyway, and no matter how one may look upon this often rebutted fact.

      The quest for all of those simplistic and very humanistis things we need and require in a mandatory state, were never really once granted to me, save for my mother, Marguerite Alice Augustine, who is the very person I mention in everything I write, which much includes that of the famed and very popular "Cahin Saw Man" series of books. Yes, this lovely, beautiful, and caring woman, my mother, who is often the symbol of our diverse era that has long faded into a wavering sense of infamy, but this same era refuses to die away from our collective consciousness and in the actual memory of we who were really there when this space in time was still here with us.

      My honor was at stake, and as a peson of faith, but by no mere sense of the term, I had to prove myself worthy of the cross of Calvary, although there is no one in all of time who can truly and unequivically perpetuate this statement in which I had just said. However my honnor, as was just explained, was really that of my ever burgeoning and emerging integrity as not only a prodigy, but as a leader whose rare attributes were seen and heard, but were equally ignored purposely by my father at home, as well as by my brother, who was very mean as he was abusive, but unlike my father at this specific time in the early to mid eighties, he was rather vague in the midst of his abuses, as he also became an ally when he saw my victimizations which were completely unfair and uncalled for by any means of protocol. In all actuality, my younger brother faded away from me in the intimate level of siblingship, by the time he was twelve years old, but we still occasionally shared things as a brother and sister should.