My Faith Is A Great Weight Hung

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.

My Sleeping Pill Is White. It Is A Splendid Pearl; It Floats Me Out Of Myself, My Stung Skin As Alien As A Loose Bolt Of Cloth.

I Am Stuffing Your Mouth With Your Promises And Watching You Vomit Them Out Upon My Face.

My Business Is Words. Words Are Like Labels, Or Coins, Or Better, Like Swarming Bees.

One Of My Secret Instructions To Myself As A Poet Is "whatever You Do, Don't Be Boring."