I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
Need is not quite belief.
The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.