http://willtoexchange.blogspot.com/2007/06/sheila-e-murphy-interview-of-peter.html

…every writer has a life, and every text is a development in any committed writer’s life, no? Every life finds, with the infinite, finishing schools off with that last draught. Even texts scour pill-green leaflet cars. Now he has to clean out this pipe. A commission with God as my co-pilot, Christ riding shotgun, blasts a sour morning all over the hairy walls, understand? Pudding and catsup and pudding and ketchup: I’m playing run abreast with me, cool air split by my chest sweating tenders from antiquity, in utero. That’s all we are. Then there’s some limit beyond which glass is butted against, the bitter levees holding the bigger river furl’d and unanswerable. Baptists sit in protest of a censure from embalming. Have I already made dark that prophet’s diction, listened through by grails, by onyx, by aspiration? I persimmon. An intelligent design would take into account no knowledge of its utility. He spent the long cold winter on a pair of swimming trunks, and threw away the receipt.

We gain mass as we age,
gathering it against
encroaching space.
The stacker hits as I
turn a corner from work.
On O’Neil you always think
there’s a car pulling up
behind you, because of
lights on your shoulders:
just like you imagine
vampire women, white billows
whisper’d from the edges of
the woods there. The churches
unwind with each heavy step.
We gain on where
we’re walking, as I remember,
a strain’d, jaundic’d
sac, as you say, our moon.
Waterfowl folded
into the eaves of every
empty house.

Putting (pops) out sm(all sl)udge fingers
dro(wned in sh)ops along luci(fer an)d keystrokes
with the li(fe fla)ghts yellow’d like
uneven(ing of casual) burning.

Da(rk ha)y is gray smo(thered, cl)othed lumber.
Days ben(efits’ d)eath themes of
adul(t condemn)ation, fis(ssures in logi)cal youth, and
irr(eperable, r)espons(es’ culpa)ibility.

The bl(eakness of l)ack cats prowl
out(er posture, all in)side our do(e flo)or. They howl
a mum(mmy tum)bled history throug(put, a)h
the w(hispers through coarse s)in(s take stock of )dows.