I've Seen The Future And It's Murder.

It's Not A Cry You Can Hear At Night. It's Not Somebody Who Has Seen The Light. It's A Cold And It's A Broken Hallelujah.

Poetry Is A Verdict Rather Than An Intention.

The Term Clinical Depression Finds Its Way Into Too Many Conversations These Days. One Has A Sense That A Catastrophe Has Occurred In The Psychic Landscape.

Reality Is One Of The Possibilities I Cannot Afford To Ignore

Be With Me In The Phases Of My Work Because My Brain Feels Like It Has Been Whipped And I Yearn To Make A Small Perfect Thing Which Will Live In Your Morning Like Curious Static Through A President's Elegy Or A Nude Hunchback Acquiring A Tan On The Crowded Oily Beach.