Nature Is Full Of Teeth That Come

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

I Sit At My Desk Each Night With No Place To Go, Opening The Wrinkled Maps Of Milwaukee And Buffalo, The Whole U.s., Its Cemeteries, Its Arbitrary Time Zones, Through Routes Like Small Veins, Capitals Like Small Stones.

We Are All Writing God's Poem.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

I Burn The Way Money Burns.