Not That It Was Beautiful, But That

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

What's Missing Is The Eyeballs In Each Of Us, But It Doesn't Matter Because You've Got The Bucks, The Bucks, The Bucks.

In A Dream You Are Never Eighty.

Today Life Opened Inside Me Like An Egg.

God Went Out Of Me As If The Sea Dried Up Like Sandpaper, As If The Sun Became A Latrine.