I Haven't Written Anything In Four Years.

Many Of My Poems Are Not Sexual.

The Painter Saw What Was, An Alternate Candor And Secrecy Inside The Skin.

Direct Me Gods, Whose Changes Are All Holy, To Where It Flickers Deep In Grass, The Moly.

I Deliberately Decided To Write A Kind Of Guide To Leather Bars For Straight People, For People Not Into Leather, So That People Could See What It Was All About.

I Had Assumed That I Would Age With All My Friends Growing Old Around Me, Dying Off Very Gradually One By One. And Here Was A Plague That Cut Them Off So Early.