I Don't Do Anything With My Life

I Saw You, Walt Whitman, Childless, Lonely Old Grubber,poking Among The Meats In The Refrigerator And Eyeing The Grocery Boys. I Heard You Asking Questions Of Each: Who Killed The Pork Chops? What Price Bananas? Are You My Angel?

Poetry Is Not An Expression Of The Party Line. It's That Time Of Night, Lying In Bed, Thinking What You Really Think, Making The Private World Public, That's What The Poet Does.

Recent History Is The Record Of One Vast Conspiracy To Impose One Level Of Mechanical Consciousness On Mankind.

I Have A New Method Of Poetry. All You Got To Do Is Look Over Your Notebooks... Or Lay Down On A Couch, And Think Of Anything That Comes Into Your Head, Especially The Miseries. Then Arrange In Lines Of Two, Three Or Four Words Each, Don't Bother About Sentences, In Sections Of Two, Three Or Four Lines Each.

Which Way Will The Sunflower Turn Surrounded By Millions Of Suns?