I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

A woman who writes feels too much.

Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.