To Be Without God Is To Be

Then All This Became History. Your Hand Found Mine. Life Rushed To My Fingers Like A Blood Clot. Oh, My Carpenter, The Fingers Are Rebuilt. They Dance With Yours.

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That I Found Some Order There.

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.

I Grow Old On My Bitterness.