Hopefully, I Write What I Don't Know.

Love, If You Love Me, Lie Next To Me. Be For Me, Like Rain, The Getting Out Of The Tiredness, The Fatuousness, The Semi- Lust Of Intentional Indifference. Be Wet With A Decent Happiness.

I Heard Words And Words Full Of Holes Aching.

My Love's Manners In Bed Are Not To Be Discussed By Me

As I Get Older, I Recognize That My Thinking About Poetry May Or May Not Have Anything Actively To Do With My Actual Work As A Poet. This Strikes Me As No Thing Cynically Awry But Rather Seems Again Instance Of That Hapless Or Possibly Happy Fact, We Do Not As Humans Seem Necessarily Aware Of What We Are Physically Or Psychically Doing At All!

The Awful Thing, As A Kid Reading, Was That You Came To The End Of The Story, And That Was It. I Mean, It Would Be Heartbreaking That There Was No More Of It.