Everything's A Fan. Brother, Open Up Your

There's No Doubt That I Really Have A Feeling For The Theater. These Past Few Days It Has Occurred To Me To Do A Comedy Whose Chief Characters Are Photographic Enlargements. Those People We See In Doorways. Newlyweds, Sergeants, Dead Girls, An Anonymous Crowd Full Of Mustaches And Wrinkles. It Should Be Terrible. If I Focus It Well, It Will Possess Pathos Without Consolation. In The Midst Of Those People I Will Place An Authentic Fairy.

My Head Is Full Of Fire And Grief And My Tongue Runs Wild, Pierced With Shards Of Glass.

The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. The Goblets Of Dawn Are Smashed. The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. Useless To Silence It. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps Monotonously As Water Weeps As The Wind Weeps Over Snowfields. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps For Distant Things. Hot Southern Sands Yearning For White Camellias. Weeps Arrow Without Target Evening Without Morning And The First Dead Bird On The Branch. Oh, Guitar! Heart Mortally Wounded By Five Swords.

Moon Like A Large Stainedglass Window That Breaks On The Ocean.

Hour Of Stars (1920) The Round Silence Of Night, One Note On The Stave Of The Infinite. Ripe With Lost Poems, I Step Naked Into The Street. The Blackness Riddled By The Singing Of Crickets: Sound, That Dead Will-o'-the-wisp, That Musical Light Perceived By The Spirit. A Thousand Butterfly Skeletons Sleep Within My Walls. A Wild Crowd Of Young Breezes Over The River.