The door to my heart is clogged with fat.

The windows of my lungs are smudged with tar.

The hallways of my neuromuscular synapses are cluttered with steroids.

The automatic door of the garage of my life is about to end.

The Message

After the…

beeeeep.

Hi Tom,

Lisa, 

look...

Time…apart

Going

Away

I’ll…to call

Later, but we…

Pressure…time to sort…

You and… 

Have to…Emperor Hirohito.

Itinerary

At six o’clock, meet

Irene.

Yes, yes, birds and whatnot

Do you think that birds would 

Commit suicide

Even if they could?

[and] if so, how?

Sleeping pills? 

The Doors Once Said

The Doors once said 

This is the end, the end.

AARON: Call Mr. Pullitzer, cause here comes his next prizewinner! Does anybody have that number?

LUKE: Mr. Becker’s poetry reads like a stream flowing downhill. His words are like trees–impressive on their own, but almost hauntingly beautiful when shown strung together into the veritable ‘word forest’ which are his poetry and titles.