I Burn The Way Money Burns.

I Was Only Sitting Here In My White Study With The Awful Black Words Pushing Me Around.

For I Could Not Read Or Speak And On The Long Nights I Could Not Turn The Moon Off Or Count The Lights Of Cars Across The Ceiling.

Poetry To Me Is Prayer.

I Raise My Pelvis To God So That It May Know The Truth Of How Flowers Smash Through The Long Winter.

This Is No Dream Just My Oily Life Where The People Are Alibis And The Street Is Unfindable For An Entire Lifetime.