Though Rain Curses The Window Let The

One Of My Secret Instructions To Myself As A Poet Is "whatever You Do, Don't Be Boring."

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

Think Of Innocent Icarus Who Is Doing Quite Well: Larger Than A Sail, Over The Fog And The Blast Of The Plushy Ocean, He Goes. Admire His Wings!

God Went Out Of Me As If The Sea Dried Up Like Sandpaper, As If The Sun Became A Latrine. God Went Out Of My Fingers. They Became Stone. My Body Became A Side Of Mutton And Despair Roamed The Slaughterhouse.

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.