I’m Lost. And It’s My Own Fault.

Yesterday I Did Not Want To Be Borrowed But This Is The Typewriter That Sits Before Me And Love Is Where Yesterday Is At.

Some Women Marry Houses. It's Another Kind Of Skin; It Has A Heart, A Mouth, A Liver And Bowel Movements.

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.

O Fallen Angel, The Companion Within Me, Whisper Something Holy Before You Pinch Me Into The Grave.

Pulling Off The Fat Diamond Engagement Ring, Pulling Off The Elopement Wedding Ring, And Holding Them, Clicking Them In Thumb And Forefinger, The Indent Of Twenty-five Years, Like A Tiny Rip Leaving Its Mark.