Be Willing To Die For

Out Of Some Persistent Sense Of Large-scale Ruin, We Kept Inventing Hope.

It Is So Much Simpler To Bury Reality Than It Is To Dispose Of Dreams

Her Death Would Leave Me Scattered, Talking To Chairs And Pillows. Don't Let Us Die, I Want To Cry Out To That Fifth-century Sky Ablaze With Mystery And Spiral Light. Let Us Both Live Forever, In Sickness And Health, Feebleminded, Doddering, Toothless, Liver-spotted, Dim-sighted, Hallucinating. Who Decides These Things? What Is Out There? Who Are You?

American Writers Ought To Stand And Live In The Margins, And Be More Dangerous.

Some Nights I Need To Be Held. Tonight I'm A Listener. So Nice To Lie In Rumpled Sheets And Listen. Cover Me With Words.