Much That Is Beautiful Must Be Discarded

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

So I Cradle This Average Violin That Knows Only Forgotten Showtunes, But Argues The Possibility Of Free Declamation Anchored To A Dull Refrain.

I Like Poems You Can Tack All Over With A Hammer And There Are No Hollow Places.

It Is Written In The Book Of Usable Minutes That All Things Have Their Center In Their Dying.

I Listen To Music A Great Deal. In A Way, It's Trying To Express Things That Can't Be Expressed In Words. That's Something That Interests Me, Too. Even Though I Use Words To Express Myself, I Am Trying To, It Seems To Me, Get Beyond That.