A false sense of security is the only kind there is.
I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter. . . Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
The still sowe eats up all the draffe.
I'm more American than apple pie. I'm like apple pie, with a hot dog in it
I shot through my twenties like a luminous thread through a dark needle, blazing toward my destination: Nowhere.
I was raised in a family where no one had a serious bone in their body and every answer was a riddle, a joke, or a prank.