How Many People Came And Stayed A

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.

I Am Often Asked Why I Write, And I Don't Know Really--i Just Want To.

Poetry Comes To Me Out Of Thin Air Or Out Of My Unconscious Mind. It's Sort Of The Way Dreams Come To Us And The Way That We Get Knowledge From Them, Through Television, Old Movies, Which I Watch A Lot Of. Lines Of Dialogue Suddenly Seem To Be Part Of A Poem.

And Just As There Are No Words For The Surface, That Is, No Words To Say What It Really Is, That It Is Not Superficial But A Visible Core, Then There Is No Way Out Of The Problem Of Pathos Vs. Experience.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.