My friend asksme where I getthe fodder forwriting my poems.I tell him, life.He says that's toosimple.He isn't satisfied.I tell him thatsometimes, I sit atmy desk and openthe window above thelitterbox, and lookoutside at theorange daylilies andwait.He says he writesfrom...

We all have somethingurgent to do.Tell the man thatworks at the butcher'sshop.Tell the boy who deliversyour newspaper.Tell the groundhog beforehe sees his shadow.Dig up Poe and Ginsberg,and tell them.Tell the streetmusician playingfor tips.Tell the whores and thevirgins.Tell the next...

The world is anorphan's broken toy.Heart like a ferrel hog,untamed by cages andstarvation.The depth of misery andelation sink dripping teethinto ripe peaches.Come on in.Ignore the floating, bloatedbodies.There's a pool of Shalomsomewhere.We all want to be healed.

There's a littleboy who hides inthe dark corners ofmy soul.He doesn't want tobe hurt anymore.I spent eight yearswith Beth.For the most part,it was hell andconstant pain.She made nightmareslook good.I heard thelittle boy crylate into thesilky night,while snails gotsmashed on...