I'm The Crazy One Who Thinks That

Maybe, Although My Heart Is A Kitten Of Butter, I Am Blowing It Up Like A Zeppelin.

I Think I've Been Writing Black Poems All Along, Wearing My White Mask. I'm Always The Victim ... But No Longer!

It Is A Dead Heart. It Is Inside Of Me. It Is A Stranger Yet Once It Was Agreeable, Opening And Closing Like A Clam.

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

As A Writer One Has To Take The Chance On Being A Fool.