Hopefully, I Write What I

I Don’t Think Any Man Writing Can Worry About What The Act Of Writing Costs Him, Even Though At Times He Is Very Aware Of It.

I Know This Body Is Impatient. I Know I Constitute Only A Meager Voice And Mind. Yet I Loved, I Love. I Want No Sentimentality. I Want No More Than Home.

Moon, Moon, When You Leave Me Alone All The Darkness Is An Utter Blackness, A Pit Of Fear, A Stench, Hands Unreasonable Never To Touch. But I Love You. Do You Love Me. What To Say When You See Me.

My Nature Is A Quagmire Of Unresolved Confessions.

It Is Hard Going To The Door Cut So Small In The Wall Where The Vision Which Echoes Loneliness Brings A Scent Of Wild Flowers In The Wood.