On A Good Day I Write, All

The First Book I Could Call Mine, My First Book, Was A Picture Book, The Magic Monkey - It Was Adapted From An Old Chinese Legend By A Thirteen-year-old Prodigy Named Plato Chan With The Help Of His Sister.

Sometimes I'd See My Father, Walking Past My Building On His Way To Another Nowhere. I Could Have Given Him A Key, Offered A Piece Of My Floor. A Futon. A Bed. But I Never Did. If I Let Him Inside I Would Become Him, The Line Between Us Would Blur, My Own Slow-motion Car Wreck Would Speed Up. The Slogan On The Side Of A Moving Company Truck Read Together We Are Going Places--modified By A Vandal Or A Disgruntled Employee To Read Together We Are Going Down. If I Went To The Drowning Man The Drowning Man Would Pull Me Under. I Couldn't Be His Life Raft.

What You Fear Your Whole Life Comes To Pass. You End Up Living Toward It, You Spend Your Life Running From It But Your Foot Is Nailed To The Sidewalk. You Circle Around It Until You Wear Yourself Own.

There Are Many Ways To Drown, Only The Most Obvious Wave Their Arms As They're Going Under.

The Attention One Gets From Being A Poet Isnt Great.