Poetry: Three Mismatched Shoes At The Entrance

Making Art In America Is About Saving One's Soul.

Here Is Something We Can All Count On. Sooner Or Later Our Tribe Always Comes To Ask Us To Agree To Murder.

One Writes Because One Has Been Touched By The Yearning For And The Despair Of Ever Touching The Other.

I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The Way Absent-minded People Leave Gloves And Umbrellas Whose Colors Are Sad From Dispensing So Much Bad Luck

The Stone Is A Mirror Which Works Poorly. Nothing In It But Dimness. Your Dimness Or Its Dimness, Who's To Say? In The Hush Your Heart Sounds Like A Black Cricket.