It Is A Dead Heart.

Writers Are Such Phonies: They Sometimes Have Wise Insights But They Don't Live By Them At All. That's What Writers Are Like...you Think They Know Something, But Usually They Are Just Messes.

I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love Me When Really My Soul Is Deformed? Will You Love Me Anyhow?

This Is What Poems Are: With Mercy For The Greedy, They Are The Tongue's Wrangle, The World's Pottage, The Rat's Star.

Come, My Pretender, My Fritter, My Bubbler, My Chicken Biddy! Oh Succulent One, It Is But One Turn In The Road And I Would Be A Cannibal!

I Sit At My Desk Each Night With No Place To Go, Opening The Wrinkled Maps Of Milwaukee And Buffalo, The Whole U.s., Its Cemeteries, Its Arbitrary Time Zones, Through Routes Like Small Veins, Capitals Like Small Stones.