I Tell It Stories Now And Then

I Think Of Myself As Writing For One Person, That One Perfect Reader Who Understands And Loves.

My Safe, Safe Psychosis Is Broken. It Was Hard. It Was Made Of Stone. It Covered My Face Like A Mask. But It Has Cracked.

Let There Be A Heaven So That Man May Outlive His Grasses.

You Lay, A Small Knuckle On My White Bed; Lay, That Fist Like A Snail, Small And Strong At My Breast. Your Lips Are Animals; You Are Fed With Love. At First, Hunger Is Not Wrong.

Think Of Innocent Icarus Who Is Doing Quite Well: Larger Than A Sail, Over The Fog And The Blast Of The Plushy Ocean, He Goes. Admire His Wings!