The Free Soul Is Rare, But You

We Are Here To Laugh At The Odds And Live Our Lives So Well That Death Will Tremble To Take Us.

The Poet, As A Rule, Is A Half-man - A Sissy, Not A Real Person, And He Is In No Shape To Lead Real Men In Matters Of Blood, Or Courage.

The Last Cigarettes Are Smoked, The Loaves Are Sliced, And Lest This Be Taken For Wry Sorrow, Drown The Spider In Wine. You Are Much More Than Simply Dead: I Am A Dish For Your Ashes, I Am A Fist For Your Vanished Air. The Most Terrible Thing About Life Is Finding It Gone.

Our Disappointment Sits Between Us.

How Can You Be True And Kind At The Same Time? How?