How Much Smaller The Large

No Road Offers More Mystery Than That First One You Mount From The Town You Were Born To, The First Time You Mount It Of Your Own Volition, On A Trip Funded By Your Own Coffee Tin Of Wrinkled Up Dollars - Bills You've Saved And Scrounged For, Worked The All-night Switchboard For, Missed The Rolling Stones For, Sold Fragrant Pot With Smashed Flowers Going Brown Inside Twist-tie Plastic Baggies For. In Fact, To Disembark From Your Origins, You've Done Everything You Can Think To Scrounge Money Save Selling Your Spanking Young Pussy.

Ten Years, She's Dead, And I Still Find Myself Some Mornings Reaching For The Phone To Call Her. She Could No More Be Gone Than Gravity Or The Moon.

I Always Say That A Poet Loves The World, And The Prose Writer Needs To Create An Alternative World.

It Strikes Me That Whatever Advantages There Are To Being A Boy--getting To Stay Out Late And Having Other People Wash Your Clothes And Bring You Plates Of Stuff--get Undercut By Having To Play Football.

If You Lie To Your Husband - Even About Something So Banal As How Much You Drink - Each Lie Is A Brick In A Wall Going Up Between You, And When He Tells You He Loves You, It's Deflected Away.