It Is June. I Am Tired Of

We Talked Death With Burned-up Intensity, Both Of Us Drawn To It Like Moths To An Electric Light Bulb. Sucking On It!

The Future Is A Fog That Is Still Hanging Out Over The Sea, A Boat That Floats Home Or Does Not. The Trade Winds Blow Me, And I Do Not Know Where The Land Is; The Waves Fold Over Each Other; They Are In Love With Themselves; Sleeping In Their Own Skin; And I Float Over Them And I Do Not Know About Tomorrow.

Death's In The Good-bye.

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.

Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or Better, Lying To Love.