Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.
agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.
It’s when you hide things that you choke on them.
And there I was, 225 pounds, perpetually lost and confused, short legs, ape-like upper body, all chest, no neck, head too large, blurred eyes, hair uncombed, 6 feet of geek, waiting for her.
I still have a little whiskey left and therefore a chance.
Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.