I'm not a known writer, not even half known. The safe bet is I'll die that way, but don't count the money yet.
I split words the way the bomb splits atoms and quit being ashamed of it long ago. I list and dig through facts seeking the shit at the bottom of the well. My clothing reeks of detergent. If it's not candid it's not real.
"There are people who are walkin' up and down the street," said Joyce, "and they don't know what they want." I'm not one of them.
Ovid said, "Everything changes, nothing is lost." I'm one of them.
Only in poetry can it all be said. Bending down on the page to send this gift brings such pleasure I can't stop.
Do you see?
Can we be healed?