There Are So Many Books I Mean

There Are Too Many Other Inexplicable Things Around Us--horrors, Threats, Mysteries That Draw You In And Then Inevitably Disenchant You. Back To The Predictable And Humdrum. The Prince Is Never Going To Come, Everybody Knows That; And Maybe Sleeping Beauty's Dead.

Dear God, Help Me. Do Not Forget Me On This Tiny Cinder Lost In A Galaxy That Is Lost–a Heart No Bigger Than A Speck Of Dust Beating, Beating Against Death, Against Meaninglessness, Against Guilt, Against Sorrow.

My Body Is No Schoolboy.

To Really Ask Is To Open The Door To The Whirlwind. The Answer May Annihilate The Question And The Questioner.

It's Not So," I Said. "and How Long Do You Think It Will Sustain You, Feeling And Seeing And Touching And Tasting, If There Is No Love? No One With You?