Art Is The Means We Have Of

The Self Says, I Am; The Heart Says, I Am Less; The Spirit Says, You Are Nothing.

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

(i Measure Time By How A Body Sways.)

Pain Wanders Through My Bones Like A Lost Fire

In The Kingdom Of Bang And Blab.