There Is A Wolf In Me... -

Slang Is A Language That Rolls Up Its Sleeves, Spits On Its Hands And Goes To Work.

Time Is A Sandpile We Run Our Fingers In.

I Remember The Chillicothe Ballplayers Grappling The Long Island Ball Players In A Sixteen-inning Game Ended By Darkness. And The Shoulders Of The Chillicothe Players Were A Red Smoke Against The Sundown And The Shoulders Of The Rock Island Players Were A Yellow Smoke Against The Sundown. And The Umpire's Voice Was Hoarse Calling Balls And Strikes And Outs And The Umpire's Throat Fought In The Dust For A Song.

I Glory In This World Of Men And Women, Torn With Troubles, Yet Living On To Love And Laugh Through It All.

Poetry Is A Slipknot Tightened Around A Time-beat Of One Thought, Two Thoughts, And A Last Interweaving Thought There Is Not Yet A Number For.