A Person Is A Process, One That

A Poem Is, So To Speak, A Way Of Making You Forget How You Wrote It.

And The World Said, Child, You Will Not Be Missed. You Are Cheaper Than A Wrench, Your Back Is A Road; Your Death Is A Table In A Book. You Had Our Wit, Our Heart Was Sealed To You: Man Is The Judgment Of The World.

Doesn't The World Need The Painter's Praise Anymore?

If Wishes Were Stories, Beggars Would Read.

If Sometimes We Are Bogged Down In Lines Full Of "corybulous", "hypogeum", "plangent", "irrefragably", "glozening", "tellurian", "conclamant", Sometimes We Are Caught Up In The Soaring Rapture Of Something Unprecedented, Absolutely Individual.