The Trouble With Therapy Is That It

My Business Is Words. Words Are Like Labels, Or Coins, Or Better, Like Swarming Bees.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or Better, Lying To Love.

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.

Take Adultery Or Theft. Merely Sins. It Is Evil Who Dines On The Soul, Stretching Out Its Long Bone Tongue. It Is Evil Who Tweezers My Heart, Picking Out Its Atomic Worms.