Now I Am Going Back And I

All I Am Is The Trick Of Words Writing Themselves.

Stop The Darkness And Its Amputations And Find The Real Mccoy In The Private Holiness Of My Hands.

And If I Tried To Give You Something Else, Something Outside Myself, You Would Not Know That The Worst Of Anyone Can Be, Finally, An Accident Of Hope

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.

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.