In My Writing, I Want To Be

You're Under Pressure When You Produce Facts. You're Working With Facts In Journalism, But You're Under All Kinds Of Formal Constraints; There Are Expectations.

He Got Right Down In The Dark Between Heartbeats, And Rested There. And Then He Saw That Another One Wasn't Going To Come. That's It. That's The Last. He Looked At The Dark. I Would Like To Take This Opportunity, He Said, To Pray For Another Human Being.

I'd Been Staying At The Holiday Inn With My Girlfriend, Honestly The Most Beautiful Woman I'd Ever Known, For Three Days Under A Phony Name, Shooting Heroin. We Made Love In The Bed, Ate Steaks At The Restaurant, Shot Up In The John, Puked, Cried, Accused One Another, Begged Of One Another, Forgave, Promised, And Carried One Another To Heaven.

How Could I Do It, How Could A Person Go That Low? And I Understand Your Question, To Which I Reply, Are You Kidding? That's Nothing. I'd Been Much Lower Than That. And I Expected To See Myself Do Worse.

The Traveling Salesmen Fed Me Pills That Made The Lining Of My Veins Feel Scraped Out, My Jaw Ached... I Knew Every Raindrop By Its Name, I Sensed Everything Before It Happened. Like I Knew A Certain Oldsmobile Would Stop Even Before It Slowed, And By The Sweet Voices Of The Family Inside, I Knew We'd Have An Accident In The Rain. I Didn't Care. They Said They'd Take Me All The Way.