All Art At A Certain Level Is

All Art At A Certain Level Is Entertainment. We Go To A Tragedy By Sophocles To Be Entertained.

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

All My Life I Have Lied. I Lied To Escape, I Lied To Be Loved, I Lied For Placement And Power; I Lied To Lie. It Was A Way Of Living; Lies Are Life's Almost-anagram.

The World Is Not Real For Me Until It Has Been Pushed Through The Mesh Of Language.

The Past Beats Inside Me Like A Second Heart.