I inhale men like cheap cigarettes.

Can we talk about sorrow? I want

To talk about words found on pavement.

Each letter’s a shackle, enslavement.

I want to bleed and I want to flaunt

That my father’s ghost sometimes haunts me.

Am I Hamlet and do I crumble?

I fear I am an orphan, humble.

My heart’s harpsichord seems to agree.

Can we talk about sorrow? I want

To find an audience to hear this.

Each poem’s about how I reminisce

And about a dry baptismal font

Because, when you’re baptized with a flame

You’re not so likely to be much-loved.

The great question is how I was shoved

From the cold cradle into hot fame.

And, you know what? I have no regrets.