I have a penchant for beauty
in things horrible and ugly as death is certain,
an uncontrollable eye that picks the passion out
yet dines on filth and ineptitude;
I have a penchant for pain.
Holding a meager mug borne in sufffering hands
to the heavy clouds
that I may quench this thirst,
that I may soothe this throat,
singed by my sobs and angry cries,
that I may drink pure, cool rain-wine from a silver bowl,
I offer my poems-those little bits of self-the good parts-
the eyes, the ears, the guts,
my voice.