A Day Without Writing Was A Little

Old Men Only Lie In Wait For People To Ask Them To Talk. Then They Rattle On Like A Rusty Elevator Wheezing Up A Shaft.

Way Out In The Country Tonight He Could Smell The Pumpkins Ripening Toward The Knife And The Triangle Eye And The Singeing Candle.

I'm Not A Serious Person, And I Don't Like Serious People.

I'm Inclined To Believe You Need The Psychiatrist.

The Blizzard Doesn't Last Forever; It Just Seems So.