I Find It Easy To Admire In

The Politics Of The Exile Are Fever, Revenge, Daydream, Theater Of The Aging Convalescent. You Wait In The Wings And Rehearse. You Wait And Wait.

We Are Trying To Live As If We Were An Experiment Conducted By The Future

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

Every Poet Has A Certain Amount Of "stuff." That's What You Draw From For Imagery. The More Stuff You Know Well, Not Simply Intellectually But Sensually, Emotionally, Intimately, The Wider The Pool From Which You Draw.

I Said, I Like My Life. If Ihave To Give It Back, If Theytake It From Me, Let Me Onlynot Feel I Wasted Any, Let Menot Feel I Forgot To Love Anyonei Meant To Love, That I Forgotto Give What I Held In My Hands,that I Forgot To Do Some Littlepiece Of The Work That Wantedto Come Through.