My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those

It Was My First Doll That Water Went Into And Water Came Out Of Much Earlier It Was The Diaper I Wore And The Dirt Thereof And My Mother Hating Me For It

It Was As If A Morning-glory Had Bloomed In Her Throat, And All That Blue And Small Pollen Ate Into My Heart, Violent And Religious

I Leave You, Home, When I'm Ripped From The Doorstep By Commerce Or Fate. Then I Submit To The Awful Subway Of The World.

I Think It Will Be A Miracle If I Don't Someday End Up Killing Myself.

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.