What's Missing Is The Eyeballs In Each

My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those Whores, Would Play No More.

God Went Out Of Me As If The Sea Dried Up Like Sandpaper, As If The Sun Became A Latrine. God Went Out Of My Fingers. They Became Stone. My Body Became A Side Of Mutton And Despair Roamed The Slaughterhouse.

Rats Live On No Evil Star

One Of My Secret Instructions To Myself As A Poet Is "whatever You Do, Don't Be Boring."

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.