My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those Whores, Would

Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen In The Head I'd Say, I Am Rowing, I Am Rowing.

Bike Downtown, Stick Out Tongues At The Catholics. Or Form A Piss Club Where We All Go In The Bushes And Peek At Each Other's Sex.

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

Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets, Just Exuberance.

I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love Me When Really My Soul Is Deformed? Will You Love Me Anyhow?