Nothing I Have Ever Written Has Been

Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed, Nearby. It Is In The Hall.

I Am Sensible Of The Velocity Of The Moments, And Entering That Part Of My Head Alert To The Motion Of The World I Am Aware That Life Was Never Perfect, Never Absolute. This Bestows Contentment, Even A Fearlessness.

I Have The Sense That If I Push Too Hard Or Too Far Into Memory I’ll Come Apart.

I Often Thought Men Stank Of Rage; It Is Why I Preferred Women, And Homosexuals.

I'm Sixty-two, And It's Ecological Sense To Die While You're Still Productive, Die And Clear A Space For Others, Old And Young.