Pain Wanders Through My Bones Like A

Wake The Happy Words.

So Much Of Adolescence Is An Ill-defined Dying, An Intolerable Waiting, A Longing For Another Place And Time, Another Condition.

I Am Overwhelmed By The Beautiful Disorder Of Poetry, The Eternal Virginity Of Words.

By Daily Dying, I Have Come To Be.

I Can't Go On Flying Apart Just For Those Who Want The Benefit Of A Few Verbal Kicks. My God, Do You Know What Poems Like That Cost? They're Not Written Vicariously: They Come Out Of Actual Suffering, Real Madness.