All Day I've Built A Lifetime And

I Grow Old On My Bitterness.

When The Cow Gives Blood And The Christ Is Born We Must All Eat Sacrifices. We Must All Eat Beautiful Women.

Suicide Is, After All, The Opposite Of The Poem.

The Future Is A Fog That Is Still Hanging Out Over The Sea, A Boat That Floats Home Or Does Not. The Trade Winds Blow Me, And I Do Not Know Where The Land Is; The Waves Fold Over Each Other; They Are In Love With Themselves; Sleeping In Their Own Skin; And I Float Over Them And I Do Not Know About Tomorrow.

Once I Was Beautiful. Now I Am Myself, Counting This Row And That Row Of Moccasins Waiting On The Silent Shelf.