The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive

Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets, Just Exuberance.

Only My Books Anoint Me, And A Few Friends, Those Who Reach Into My Veins.

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

If The Doctors Cure Then The Sun Sees It. If The Doctors Kill Then The Earth Hides It. The Doctors Should Fear Arrogance More Than Cardiac Arrest.

I Think It Will Be A Miracle If I Don't Someday End Up Killing Myself.