The Drum In A Dream Pounds Loud

Time Is The Coin Of Your Life. You Spend It. Do Not Allow Others To Spend It For You.

The Peace Of Great Books Be For You, Stains Of Pressed Clover Leaves On Pages, Bleach Of The Light Of Years Held In Leather.

The Moon Is A Friend For The Lonesome To Talk To.

I'll Die Propped Up In Bed Trying To Do A Poem About America.

Poetry Is Any Page From A Sketchbook Of Outlines Of A Doorknob With Thumb-prints Of Dust, Blood, Dreams.