If Each Of My Words Were A

A Flower Without A Stem, Is Beauty Waiting To Die. A Heart Without Love, Is A Tear Waiting To Cry.

Man, Even Man Debased By The Neocapitalism And Pseudosocialism Of Our Time, Is A Marvelous Being Because He Sometimes Speaks. Language Is The Mark, The Sign, Not Of His Fall But Of His Original Innocence. Through The Word We May Regain The Lost Kingdom And Recover Powers We Possessed In The Far-distant Past.

The Beloved Is Already In Our Being, As Thirst And "otherness." Being Is Eroticism. Inspiration Is That Strange Voice That Takes Man Out Of Himself To Be Every Thing That He Is, Everything That He Desires; Another Body, Another Being. Beyond, Outside Of Me, In The Green And Gold Thicket, Among The Tremulous Branches, Sings The Unknown. It Calls To Me.

Tradition Is No Longer A Continuity But A Series Of Sharp Breaks. The Modern Tradition Is The Tradition Of Revolt.

There Can Be No Society Without Poetry, But Society Can Never Be Realized As Poetry, It Is Never Poetic. Sometimes The Two Terms Seek To Break Apart. They Cannot.