I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love

Come, My Pretender, My Fritter, My Bubbler, My Chicken Biddy! Oh Succulent One, It Is But One Turn In The Road And I Would Be A Cannibal!

I Keep Feeling That There Isn't One Poem Being Written By Any One Of Us - Or A Book Or Anything Like That. The Whole Life Of Us Writers, The Whole Product I Guess I Mean, Is The One Long Poem - A Community Effort If You Will. It's All The Same Poem. It Doesn't Belong To Any One Writer - It's God's Poem Perhaps. Or God's People's Poem.

All In All, I'd Say, The World Is Strangling.

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.

I Imitatea Memory Of Beliefthat I Do Not Own.