God, Let Me Remember All Good Losers.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

Tongues Wrangled Dark At A Man. He Buttoned His Overcoat And Stood Alone. In A Snowstorm, Red Hollyberries, Thoughts, He Stood Alone.

Poetry Is A Search For Syllables To Shoot At The Barriers Of The Unknown And The Unknowable.

Poetry Is A Type-font Design For An Alphabet Of Fun, Hate, Love, Death.

A Liar Goes In Fine Clothes, A Liar Goes In Rags, A Liar Is A Liar, Clothes Or No Clothes.