It Is June. I Am Tired Of

I Think It Will Be A Miracle If I Don't Someday End Up Killing Myself.

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm Borrowed. Now I'm Numb.

I Am Crazy As Hell, But I Know It. And Knowing It Is A Kind Of Sanity That Makes The Sickness Worse.

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.

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.