One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences

I Think Of Myself As Writing For One Person, That One Perfect Reader Who Understands And Loves.

Every Time I Get Happy The Nana-hex Comes Through. Birds Turn Into Plumber's Tools, A Sonnet Turns Into A Dirty Joke, A Wind Turns Into A Tracheotomy, A Boat Turns Into A Corpse.

I Tied Down Time With A Rope But It Came Back. Then I Put My Head In A Death Bowl And My Eyes Shut Up Like Clams. They Didn't Come Back.

Writers Are Such Phonies: They Sometimes Have Wise Insights But They Don't Live By Them At All. That's What Writers Are Like...you Think They Know Something, But Usually They Are Just Messes.

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.