Ten Years, She's Dead, And I Still

When You Do Try To Picture The Boys Who Do Ask You Out, They're Absolutely Featureless, Like Old Carvings Eroded By Centuries Of Rain And Wind.

I Don't Have A Copy Of My Books, And The Degree To Which I Never Read Them Is Profound. I Never Look.

I Don't Think I Look Like The Pope's Favorite Catholic - At Least Not Under Close Scrutiny.

We Are In The Grip Of Some Big Machine Grinding Us Along. The Force Of It Simplifies Everything. A Weird Calm Settled Over Me From Inside Out. What Is About To Happen Has Stood In Line To Happen. All The Roads Out Of That Instant Have Been Closed, One By One.

No Road Offers More Mystery Than That First One You Mount From The Town You Were Born To, The First Time You Mount It Of Your Own Volition, On A Trip Funded By Your Own Coffee Tin Of Wrinkled Up Dollars - Bills You've Saved And Scrounged For, Worked The All-night Switchboard For, Missed The Rolling Stones For, Sold Fragrant Pot With Smashed Flowers Going Brown Inside Twist-tie Plastic Baggies For. In Fact, To Disembark From Your Origins, You've Done Everything You Can Think To Scrounge Money Save Selling Your Spanking Young Pussy.