within the story i live, is the story i reveal to myself. within the story i reveal to myself, is the story i describe. within the story i describe, is the story i reveal to you. when you hear my story, you make your own story about my story. this story you make, may include revelations about me that i have not admitted to myself. your descriptions may have nothing to do with my life, but could be very accurate about the story we all live. in other words, i am supplying the words. i am in the spotlight. but you are doing the work. i may offer you the image of a woman sliding her pants down. you interpret it. maybe you think she is pulling them down to take a shit. we do this roughly once a day. i mean, the action itself. or you may interpret this as the prelude to the first time she makes love to the person who will become her lifelong partner. her legs are shy beneath her underwear. arms are ready to embrace her. her legs quiver to wrap themselves around. i give only the words & you supply the rest. a lot of writers, as soon as they make a snowball, they want to throw it at you. i only want to show you the tip of the iceberg. i hide behind the poems. it is easy to get on stage if you think you have a good friend who is going to shield you. in a way, though, i am bigger than my poems & i always stick out a little behind them, offering a soft target. in another way, as i was trying to get at before, what the audience makes of the poem becomes bigger than the poem itself, & perhaps bigger than me. at that point, when i move the audience to see that other version of the poem (the part that includes not only them, but everyone they love), then the poem is a worthy shield. maybe more than a shield, maybe a pair of hugging arms.