Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died

Jesus Saw The Multitudes Were Hungry And He Said, Oh Lord, Send Down A Short-order Cook.

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

The Tongue, The Chinese Say, Is Like A Sharp Knife: It Kills Without Drawing Blood.

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.

I Burn The Way Money Burns.