Then God Spoke To Me And Said:

The Stars Are Pears That No One Can Reach, Even For A Wedding. Perhaps For A Death.

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.

Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

Home Is My Bethlehem, My Succoring Shelter, My Mental Hospital, My Wife, My Dam, My Husband, My Sir, My Womb, My Skull.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.