And We Are Magic Talking To Itself,

I'm An Empress. I Wear An Apron. My Typewriter Writes. It Didn't Break The Way It Warned. Even Crazy, I'm As Nice As A Chocolate Bar.

To Love Another Is Somethinglike Prayer And It Can't Be Planned, You Just Fallinto Its Arms Because Your Belief Undoes Your Disbelief.

The Soul Was Not Cured, It Was As Full As A Clothes Closet Of Dresses That Did Not Fit.

I Am Not Lazy. I Am On The Amphetamine Of The Soul. I Am, Each Day, Typing Out The God My Typewriter Believes In.

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.