Vile transactions in the country I keep: backroom boys, self-styled plain dealers. Bullshit, pettifoggery, seems so easy to beat away—but try and beat your own hand from the cake! I find myself hot butter—my fingernails drip off in it—oh, how awful, the drops—anyway, anything’ll go through me, as quick as it may like. To do better, I plead that some angel with sparking sword descend all in a sudden, and teach me to better post—legs together, eyes to the horizon-line, quick to thrash any encroaching specimen of waste. But I’m soft, still—and I’ll throw the gates wide to the comers, so gratified—oh, to lay by such stock of company!
-2002
