Talk Into My Bullet Hole. Tell Me

I'd Been Staying At The Holiday Inn With My Girlfriend, Honestly The Most Beautiful Woman I'd Ever Known, For Three Days Under A Phony Name, Shooting Heroin. We Made Love In The Bed, Ate Steaks At The Restaurant, Shot Up In The John, Puked, Cried, Accused One Another, Begged Of One Another, Forgave, Promised, And Carried One Another To Heaven.

Down The Hall Came The Wife. She Was Glorious, Burning. She Didn't Know Yet That Her Husband Was Dead. We Knew. That's What Gave Her Such Power Over Us. The Doctor Took Her Into A Room With A Desk At The End Of The Hall, And From Under The Closed Door A Slab Of Brilliance Radiated As If, By Some Stupendous Process, Diamonds Were Being Incinerated In There. What A Pair Of Lungs! She Shrieked As I Imagined An Eagle Would Shriek. It Felt Wonderful To Be Alive To Hear It! I've Gone Looking For That Feeling Everywhere.

With Each Step My Heart Broke For The Person I Would Never Find, The Person Who'd Love Me.

All The Modern Verse Plays, They're Terrible; They're Mostly About The Poetry. It's More Important That The Play Is First.

When We Were Arguing On My Twenty-fourth Birthday, She Left The Kitchen, Came Back With A Pistol, And Fired It At Me Five Times From Right Across The Table. But She Missed. It Wasn't My Life She Was After. It Was More. She Wanted To Eat My Heart And Be Lost In The Desert With What She'd Done, She Wanted To Fall On Her Knees And Give Birth From It, She Wanted To Hurt Me As Only A Child Can Be Hurt By Its Mother.