Publisher's Synopsis
And I open my mind, I say what needs to be said, I tell all I am bid tell, omit nothing, for here is your meat, and here your drink; dine in halls with daddy deceit as children seated along a long table, all fidgeting in your chairs, all wishing not to hear what must be heard. And I open my eyes I see what remains to be seen, I relate everything relative, save nothing for myself, I feed you from the cupboards of my mind and grin as you consume, your children's faces all smiles and happy, your eyes wide with wonder. And I open my mouth, I speak of nightfalls to come, warn of depravities yet done, linger over moot points of gesture while your bellies grumble and your anxious wounds fester. Poetry is often at its best when it represents naivety's screed. That is, when we hear it in the wounded howls of inexperienced youth, the indignant cries of misplaced hopelessness, the scolding hisses of childish hypocrisy, or the airy boasting of arrogant fools.
