I burn the way money burns.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

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

Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.