Come, My Pretender, My Fritter, My Bubbler,

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.

The Silence Is Death. It Comes Each Day With Its Shock To Sit On My Shoulder, A White Bird, And Peck At The Black Eyes And The Vibrating Red Muscle Of My Mouth.

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

I Am Not Lazy. I Am On The Amphetamine Of The Soul. I Am, Each Day, Typing Out The God My Typewriter Believes In.

What A Lay Me Down This Is With Two Pink, Two Orange, Two Green, Two White Goodnights.