when I was a boy I used to dream of becoming the village idiot. I used to lie in bed and imagine myself the happy idiot able to get food easily ...and easy sympathy, a planned confusion of not too much love or effort. some would claim that I have succeeded.

Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.

sometimes I hate you," she said.

pain is absurd because it exists, nothing more.

I can see where creation often stops while the body still lives and often does not care to. the death of life before life dies.

I held her wrists and then I got it through the eyes: hatred, centuries deep and true. I was wrong and graceless and sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted. there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems were false.

sometimes there's nothing to say about death.