I Ride Earth's Burning Carousel. Day In,

The Thought That I Might Kill Myself Formed In My Mind Coolly As A Tree Or A Flower.

The First Time It Happened I Was Ten. It Was An Accident. The Second Time I Meant To Last It Out And Not Come Back At All. I Rocked Shut As A Seashell. They Had To Call And Call And Pick The Worms Off Me Like Sticky Pearls. Dying Is An Art, Like Everything Else. I Do It Exceptionally Well. I Do It So It Feels Like Hell. I Do It So It Feels Real. I Guess You Could Say I've A Call.

As A Poet, One Lives A Bit On Air. I Always Like Someone Who Can Teach Me Something Practical.

The Constant Struggle In Mature Life, I Think, Is To Accept The Necessity Of Tragedy And Conflict, And Not To Try To Escape To Some Falsely Simple Solution Which Does Not Include These More Somber Complexities.

I Felt Wise And Cynical As All Hell.