Put Your Ear Down Close To Your

[i] Have Fantasies Of Killing Myself And Thus Being The Powerful One Not The Powerless One.

O Fallen Angel, The Companion Within Me, Whisper Something Holy Before You Pinch Me Into The Grave.

One Of My Secret Instructions To Myself As A Poet Is "whatever You Do, Don't Be Boring."

I Sit At My Desk Each Night With No Place To Go, Opening The Wrinkled Maps Of Milwaukee And Buffalo, The Whole U.s., Its Cemeteries, Its Arbitrary Time Zones, Through Routes Like Small Veins, Capitals Like Small Stones.

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.