Life Is A Trick, Life Is A

Poetry To Me Is Prayer.

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

As For Me, I Am A Watercolor. I Wash Off.

In An Old Time There Was A King As Wise As A Dictionary.