My mother tells me I am not her son, my sister says that was not my crime, being foolish scaring the mother with the ugly daughter mask, hands like worms reaching out to the mother who has just been stone so long that how could the mother bear the daughter, but she did the beautiful ugly one of summer nights. Hungry like this snake of a city reduced to living stone.

I’ve got a lot of good ideas but not one that will get me through August.

I've got a lot of good ideas but not one that will get me through August.