Love Is The Tact Of Every Good,

Each Minute Bursts In The Burning Room,the Great Globe Reels In The Solar Fire,spinning The Trivial And Unique Away.(how All Things Flash! How All Things Flare!)what Am I Now That I Was Then?may Memory Restore Again And Againthe Smallest Color Of The Smallest Day:time Is The School In Which We Learn,time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

And Hence The Poet Must Seek To Be Essentially Anonymous, He Must Die A Little Death Each Morning, He Must Swallow His Toad And Study His Vomit As Baudelaire Studied La Charogne Of Jeanne Duval.

Whence, If Ever, Shall Come The Actualityof A Voice Speaking The Mind's Knowing,the Sunlight Bright On The Green Windowshade,and The Self Articulate, Affectionate, And Flowing,ease, Warmth, Light, The Utter Showing,when In The White Bed All Things Are Made.

Time Is The School In Which We Learn, Time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

Poetry Must Be As New As Foam & Old As Rock.