I Am Out Of Practice At Living.

The Body Is A Damn Hard Thing To Kill.

Rats Live On No Evil Star

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.

Please God, We're All Right Here. Please Leave Us Alone. Don't Send Death In His Fat Red Suit And His Ho-ho Baritone.

I Keep Feeling That There Isn't One Poem Being Written By Any One Of Us - Or A Book Or Anything Like That. The Whole Life Of Us Writers, The Whole Product I Guess I Mean, Is The One Long Poem - A Community Effort If You Will. It's All The Same Poem. It Doesn't Belong To Any One Writer - It's God's Poem Perhaps. Or God's People's Poem.