We In Purgatory Sing Fondly Of Hell.

I Hate Two Kinds Of Sentences You Hear In Workshops, The Ones Beginning "i Really Like ..." And The Ones Beginning "my Problem With This Poem Is ..."

[the Doctor] Peeked Into The Trauma Room And Saw The Situation: The Clerk - That Is, Me - Standing Next To The Orderly, Georgie, Both Of Us On Drugs, Looking Down At A Patient With A Knife Sticking Up Out Of His Face. 'what Seems To Be The Trouble?' He Asked.

Everybody’s Got A Mean Side. Just Don’t Feed It Till It Grows.

They Needed To Share One Secret After Another With A Beautiful Woman, To Peel Away Layer After Layer, Mask After Mask, And Still Find Themselves Worshiped.

That World! These Days It's All Been Erased And They've Rolled It Up Like A Scroll And Put It Away Somewhere. Yes, I Can Touch It With My Fingers. But Where Is It?