I’ll write one true thing a day in the week running up to my birthday.
John Ashbery is boring and I’d rather eat cardboard than read his poetry.
I’m a poor judge of character, which is my saving grace in making friends.
Angrier. Sadder. Heavier. I look at the young and am disconsolate.
There are no moral phenomena, but I have to act as if good and evil exist.
Last week I wrote a respectable poem about sex with a party of cyborgs.
John Ashbery is boring but “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror” is brilliant.
Love, I have been under increasing pressure to make a false allegation.
Photo by Guy E. Humphrey. I name it "Wallflowers."