Just Being In A Room With Myself

Like I'm Dragging Bundles Of Old Clothes? I'm Carrying Artifacts That Breathe Fire. I'm Talking About A Language Of Smoke. These Are Three-dimensional Creatures That Can Mate. I'd No More Leave Them Go By The Side Of The Trail Than I Would My Child. I'll Carry Them Until Someone Amputates My Arms.

In Communist Countries, You Execute Your Poets. In The Free World, The Poets Execute Themselves.

If You Can Be Anything Else But A Writer, Be It.

I Write A Lot By Sound. One Sound Leads Me To Another. These Sounds Aren't Random; They Have Their Own Logic.

I Knew A Book Of Mine Was Finished When I Was In Intensive Care.