It May Take Two People To Make

I Spill My Bright Incalculable Soul

One Day Anyone Died I Guess (and Noone Stooped To Kiss His Face) Busy Folk Buried Them Side By Side Little By Little And Was By Was

A Poet Is Someone Who Is Abnormally Fond Of That Precision Which Creates Movement. Which Is To Say The Highest Form Of Concentration Possible: Fascination; To Report On The Electrifying Experience Of Being

Like The Burlesque Comedian, I Am Abnormally Fond Of That Precision Which Creates Movement.

Someone Asked Me What Home Was And All I Could Think Of Were The Stars On The Tip Of Your Tongue, The Flowers Sprouting From Your Mouth, The Roots Entwined In The Gaps Between Your Fingers, The Ocean Echoing Inside Of Your Ribcage.