You'll find me...
You'll find me living in the cave by the lake,
singing to the moon and scribbling my opera
in the mud—if it works, then it works. My mistake
was in wanting to write with old bone, etc.
Now that I know I smeared ashes and blood, it's a
little like learning that God is a fake.
Dead prose, dead poetry speaks with a lisp
and a pop!, a clarion will-o'-the-wisp.
Do not grieve at my absence, nor cry for my sake.
—The nights here are quiet, and the air is crisp.
|