I Am Often Asked Why I Write,

Not Until It Starts To Stink Does The Inevitable Happen.

Death Is A New Office Building Filled With Modern Furniture, A Wise Thing, But Which Has No Purpose For Us.

The Promise Of Learning Is A Delusion.... Tomorrow Would Alter The Sense Of What Had Already Been Learned, That The Learning Process Is Extended In This Way, So That From This Standpoint None Of Us Ever Graduates From College, For Time Is An Emulsion, And Probably Thinking Not To Grow Up Is The Brightest Kind Of Maturity For Us, Right Now At Any Rate.

And We May Be Led, Then, Upward Through More Powerful Forms Of Poetry, Past Columns With Peeling Posters On Them, To The Country Of Indifference. Meanwhile If The Swell Diapasons, Blooms Unhappily And Too Soon, The Little People Are Nonetheless Real.

So I Cradle This Average Violin That Knows Only Forgotten Showtunes, But Argues The Possibility Of Free Declamation Anchored To A Dull Refrain.