When It Snows In Your Nose, You

You Are What You Think About All Day.

We Are Great Writers On The Same Dreadful Typewriter

My Books Piled Up Before Me For My Use Waiting In Space Where I Placed Them, They Haven't Disappeared, Time's Left Its Remnants And Qualities For Me To Use -- My Words Piled Up, My Texts, My Manuscripts, My Loves.

America, How Can I Write A Holy Litany In Your Silly Mood?

I Don't Do Anything With My Life Except Romanticize And Decay With Indecision.