I Am A Cigarette With

That Morning She Pours Teacher's Over My Belly And Licks It Off. That Afternoon She Tries To Jump Out The Window.

It's Possible, In A Poem Or Short Story, To Write About Commonplace Things And Objects Using Commonplace But Precise Language, And To Endow Those Things—a Chair, A Window Curtain, A Fork, A Stone, A Woman's Earring—with Immense, Even Startling Power.

I Am Too Nervous To Eat Pie.

You're...writing For Other Writers To An Extent-the Dead Writers Whose Work You Admire, As Well As The Living Writers You Like To Read.

All This, All Of This Love We're Talking About, It Would Just Be A Memory. Maybe Not Even A Memory. Am I Wrong? Am I Way Off Base? Because I Want You To Set Me Straight If You Think I'm Wrong. I Want To Know. I Mean, I Don't Know Anything, And I'm The First One To Admit It.