All Who Love Have Lied.

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

As For Me, I Am A Watercolor. I Wash Off.

Earth, Earthriding Your Merry-go-roundtoward Extinction,right To The Rootsthickening The Oceans Like Gravy,festering In Your Caves,you Are Becoming A Latrine.

The Body Is A Damn Hard Thing To Kill.

God Went Out Of Me As If The Sea Dried Up Like Sandpaper, As If The Sun Became A Latrine.