This Is No Dream Just My Oily

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind

Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen In The Head I'd Say, I Am Rowing, I Am Rowing.

I Wonder If The Artist Ever Lives His Life--he Is So Busy Recreating It.

My Safe, Safe Psychosis Is Broken. It Was Hard. It Was Made Of Stone. It Covered My Face Like A Mask. But It Has Cracked.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.