I Who Was A House Full Of

I Brush My Hair, Waiting In The Pain Machine For My Bones To Get Hard, For The Soft, Soft Bones That Were Laid Apart And Were Screwed Together. They Will Knit. And The Other Corpse, The Fractured Heart, I Feed It Piecemeal, Little Chalice. I'm Good To It.

I Burn The Way Money Burns.

Letters Are False Really - They Are Expressions Of The Way You Wish You Were Instead Of The Way You Are.

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.

My Sleeping Pill Is White. It Is A Splendid Pearl; It Floats Me Out Of Myself, My Stung Skin As Alien As A Loose Bolt Of Cloth.