Poetry Is Not The Record Of An

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot