Not That It Was Beautiful, But That,

My Ideas Are A Curse. They Spring From A Radical Discontent With The Awful Order Of Things. I Play Clown. I Play Carpenter. I Play Nurse. I Play Witch.

I Would Like A Simple Life / Yet All Night I Am Laying / Poems Away In A Long Box.

Here In The Hospital, I Say,that Is Not My Body, Not My Body.i Am Not Here For The Doctorsto Read Like A Recipe.

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.

I Keep Feeling That There Isn't One Poem Being Written By Any One Of Us - Or A Book Or Anything Like That. The Whole Life Of Us Writers, The Whole Product I Guess I Mean, Is The One Long Poem - A Community Effort If You Will. It's All The Same Poem. It Doesn't Belong To Any One Writer - It's God's Poem Perhaps. Or God's People's Poem.