Who am I? Flying, I live, and sometimes I make songs:
flower songs, butterflies of songs—such as reveal my sentiments, such as express my heart.

There are real facts in my poems, but facts mixed up in the perverse stubborn stew of imagination, add a pinch or two of revenge and retribution, a dash of amplification and reparation.

I don’t have to know what a song means. I’ve written all kind of things in my songs, and I’m not goin worry about it — what it all means.

you, keeper of a thousand
not-pregnant surprise parties
instigator of the exhale

Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.

I love you, rotten,
delicious rottenness..