The Real Writer Is One Who Really

I Mourn In Grey, Grey As The Sleeted Wind The Bled Shades Of Twilight, Gunmetal, Battleships, Industrial Paint.

Connections Are Made Slowly, Sometimes They Grow Underground.

Nobody Can Live On A Bridge Or Plant Potatoes But It Is Fine For Comings And Goings, Meetings, Partings And Long Views And A Real Connection To Someplace Else Where You May In The Crazy Weathers Of Struggle How And Again Want To Be.

Art Is A Game Only If You Playat It, A Mirror That Reflects From The Inside Out.

On This Twelfth Day Of My Diet I Would Rather Die Satiated Than Slim.