I remember a day in late October
running for goodies house to house...

Transfixed before a glass walled pillar
filled with sculls of murdered persons...

Aw, Jimmy, ya didn 'ave
ta be the hero, now...

My siamese reposes regally curled
on the distinct place on my bed...

On the cusp of a dream
I found you...

I am the rooster with razors
strapped to my feet...

The tears of the rich flow
because Much is never Enough...

The Ability to Sleep
What division, what factor, separates me...

The trouble with inspiration
is it needs much perspiration...

Only in this world economy
could the transformation...

When I was pre-school
I sent off for a prize...

The journey we take
rounds us back to the journey...