Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Life Is Beautiful. He Who Reads That As In The Window Of Some Distant, Speeding Train Knows What He Wants, And What Will Befall.

The Ellipse Is As Aimless As That, Stretching Invisibly Into The Future So As To Reappear In Our Present. Its Flexing Is Its Account, Return To The Point Of No Return.

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

The Evening Light Was Like Honey In The Trees When You Left Me And Walked To The End Of The Street Where The Sunset Abruptly Ended. The Wedding-cake Drawbridge Lowered Itself To The Fragile Forget-me-not Flower. You Climbed Aboard. Burnt Horizons Suddenly Paved With Golden Stones, Dreams I Had, Including Suicide, Puff Out The Hot-air Balloon Now. It Is Bursting, It Is About To Burst

... The First Step Of The Terrible Journey Toward Feeling Somebody Should Act, That Ends In Utter Confusion And Hopelessness, East Of The Sun And West Of The Moon.