Psychiatry Is A Dirty Mirror.

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.

Those Moments Before A Poem Comes, When The Heightened Awareness Comes Over You, And You Realize A Poem Is Buried There Somewhere, You Prepare Yourself. I Run Around, You Know, Kind Of Skipping Around The House, Marvelous Elation. It’s As Though I Could Fly.

Pulling Off The Fat Diamond Engagement Ring, Pulling Off The Elopement Wedding Ring, And Holding Them, Clicking Them In Thumb And Forefinger, The Indent Of Twenty-five Years, Like A Tiny Rip Leaving Its Mark.

I’m Lost. And It’s My Own Fault. It’s About Time I Figured Out That I Can’t Ask People To Keep Me Found.