The Writer’s Life Is A Life Of

You Could Slap His Wrist For Saying It, But Then He Said It With His Face, And You Could Spank Him For Making Faces, But Then He Said It With His Eyes, And There Were Limits To Correction-no Way, In The End, To Penetrate Behind The Blue Irises And Eradicate A Boy's Disgust.

I Wanted All Of Her And Resented Other Boys For Wanting Any Part Of Her.

Readers And Writers Are United In Their Need For Solitude, In Their Pursuit Of Substance In A Time Of Ever-increasing Evanescence: In Their Reach Inward, Via Print, For A Way Out Of Loneliness.

I Voluntarily Inflicted A Certain Level Of Insanity On Myself.

Brooklyn Was Like Philadelphia Made Better By Its Proximity To Manhattan.