Fact Is Based Upon Vulgar Matter.

The Flowers Are Ravined By Bees, The Fruit Blossoms Are Thrown To The Ground, The Wind The Rain Forces Everything.

There Are No Hierarchies, No Infinite, No Such Many As Mass, There Are Only/ Eyes In All Heads,/ To Be Looked Out Of.

The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat To The Imitation They Are Anyhow.

An American Is A Complex Of Occasions, Themselves A Geometry Of Spatial Nature.

You Don't Help People In Your Poems. I've Been Trying To Help People All My Life - That's My Trouble