Life Begins To Happen. My Hoppped Up

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

In The End, There Is No End.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot