I was born with my eyes turned inward.

Being there doesn't mean I'm present. I exist only in words. I want to be transmuted fully to white page and ink.

Metaphor is a slippery eel, if it wasn't for its shock I'd stick to the easy catch of prose.

I wouldn't give ten gallons of my own piss for clear sentence that gives the sense of a tree as a tree, when I revel in the nonsense of its being my own Grandfather, a letter from yesterday, or a masturbating fist.