I have
   gathered bones from haylofts of decaying barns and thrown
   them to the winds; I have seen them dance there, briefly, 
 cavorting in dim cloud-reflected city light, before falling
    to the ground, as dead as they had been.  I have crashed 
      myself, wave to wave, upon soundproof walls and bolted
   doors, senseless and impotent with rage.  I have followed 
    the endless sanity of street lamps, arranged in parallel 
 lines, shimmering gracelessly in congested air.  
                                                  I have not 
       received the cold invitations of suicides and private 
   demons; I have not encountered their communiques.  I have 
 not learned to sit idly in the shade of withering trees.  I
  have not smelled the true smell of death; only the precise 
       chemical odor of an antiseptic, floating in the cold, 
  conditioned air of a funeral chapel.  I have not heard the 
clicking of a beetle's jaws, nor the whispering morbidity of 
   late winter winds.  
                       I have accepted shame as my strongest 
   emotion.  I have painted with my shame, as a child paints 
    with shit, in words and gestures and realms of being.  I 
      have regarded the suffusing warmth of shame as my most 
 reliable muse.  
                 I have never been able to speak with a fine 
brush; I have never been able to paint with clarity.  When I 
 leave I will leave you with my clumsy portraits, my foolish
 tongue.  These things are not about violence or alienation; these things are.