Letters Are False Really - They Are

But Even In A Telephone Booth Evil Can Seep Out Of The Receiver And We Must Cover It With A Mattress, And Then Tear It From Its Roots And Bury It, Bury It.

I Tell It Stories Now And Then And Feed It Images Like Honey. I Will Not Speculate Today With Poems That Think They're Money.

Don't Bite Till You Know If It's Bread Or Stone.

Stop The Darkness And Its Amputations And Find The Real Mccoy In The Private Holiness Of My Hands.

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.