Poets Are Sitting In My Kitchen. Why

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.

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

Suddenly I'm Not Half The Girl I Used To Be. There's A Shadow Hanging Over Me . . . From Me To You Out Of My Electric Devil.

Take A Woman Talking, Purging Herself With Rhymes, Drumming Words Out Like A Typewriter, Planting Words In You Like Grass Seed. You'll Move Off.

It's All A Matter Of History. Brandy Is No Solace. Librium Only Lies Me Down Like A Dead Snow Queen. Yes! I Am Still The Criminal.