You Are A Dream; I Hope I

I Tried To Speak In A Cool, Calm Way, But The Zombie Rose Up In My Throat And Choked Me Off.

The Moon, Too, Abases Her Subjects, But In The Daytime She Is Ridiculous. Your Dissatisfactions, On The Other Hand, Arrive Through The Mailslot With Loving Regularity, White And Blank, Expansive As Carbon Monoxide. No Day Is Safe From News Of You, Walking About In Africa Maybe, But Thinking Of Me.

I Am Made, Crudely, For Success.

Then I Decided I Would Spend The Summer Writing A Novel. That Would Fix A Lot Of People.

I Could Feel The Winter Shaking My Bones And Banging My Teeth Together.