I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot