Dad Is Always Hiding In His Book.

If You Feel A Bump On Page One Hundred, It May Be You Went Off On Page Fifty.

The Music Of The Stones Pounds The Air Like The Amplified Pulse Of My Erection.

My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon Them Again And Again. They Become More And More Ghostly. I Fear Nothing So Much As Losing Them Altogether And Having Only My Blank Endless Mind To Live In.

I Have Committed Many Sins In My Life. This Precise Sin-the Sin Against Poets-is Without Absolution.

Images Break With A Small Ping, Their Destruction Is As Wonderful As Their Being, They Are Essentially Instruments Of Torture Exploding Through The Individual's Calloused Capacity To Feel Undifferentiated Emotions Full Of Longing And Dissatisfaction And Monumentality.