What Good Are You? What Can You

I Once Lay In A White Hospital For The Dying And The Dying Self, Where Some God Pissed A Rain Of Reason To Make Things Grow Only To Die, Where On My Knees I Prayed For Light, I Prayed For L*i*g*h*t, And Praying Crawled Like A Blind Slug Into The Web Where Threads Of Wind Stuck Against My Mind And I Died Of Pity For Man, For Myself, On A Cross Without Nails, Watching In Fear As The Pig Belches In His Sty, Farts, Blinks And Eats.

Never Get Out Of Bed Before Noon.

There Are So Many Days When Living Stops And Pulls Up And Sits And Waits Like A Train On The Rails.

Joan Of Arc Had Style. Jesus Had Style.

We Only Asked For Leopards To Guard Our Thinning Dreams.