Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

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

Alone With Our Madness And Favorite Flower We See That There Really Is Nothing Left To Write About. Or Rather, It Is Necessary To Write About The Same Old Things In The Same Way, Repeating The Same Things Over And Over For Love To Continue And Be Gradually Different.

Just When I Thought There Wasn't Room Enough For Another Thought In My Head, I Had This Great Idea—

My Feeling Is That Most Political Poetry Is Preaching To The Choir, And That The People Who Are Going To Make The Political Changes In Our Lives Are Not The People Who Read Poetry, Unfortunately. Poetry Not Specifically Aimed At Political Revolution, Though, Is Beneficial In Moving People Toward That Kind Of Action, As Well As Other Kinds Of Action. A Good Poem Makes Me Want To Be Active On As Many Fronts As Possible.

The Mind Is So Hospitable, Taking In Everything Like Boarders, And You Don't See Until It's All Over How Little There Was To Learn Once The Stench Of Knowledge Has Dissipated.