Tumbling out of my mouth are mountains of lines hidden by thin curtains locked behind doors that lead to other doors but I speak of mysterious from the deep; horrors once conquered beneath the slim surface of the wake.
Come crashing back down to Earth to attend your own wake.
Wake in the morning then die with the sun,
Your worlds ending the apocalypse is here.
With sheering queer ray shines the beast enters from depths far beyond our understanding; depths so infinite; the one, you, harboring such demons is a vessel so fragile attending to these meddlesome thoughts.
Yet here I speak to You, a man caught up in this world of silk woven decadence;
Here I stand before You a person beyond recognition clouded behind a range of bluffs;
Here I beg You to please love me as I try to unravel myself, for You the effort I make subtracts a considerable weight from my soul, but for You I will make myself undone;
Fill the hole I had dug up from below.
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Q. Youβre Such a Disciplined Writer. Were You Always That Way?
A. When I was in graduate school, I worked part-time at a local
library. I ran the used bookstore in the basement. The money
came in handy. There was plenty of time to study.
I learned to know the regulars who talked about living with pain
and waiting for bland meals to be delivered.
One sweltering afternoon I read about Tibetan body breakers
who dismember corpses with their hatchets and flaying knives
so the vultures will have an easier time.
I imagined my own body and the monks asking, βWhat did this
one do?β And the answer would be, βNot much.β As the hand I
could have written with flew away from the wrist.
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