Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps

If Technique Is Of No Interest To A Writer, I Doubt That The Writer Is An Artist.

A Symbol From The First, Of Mastery, Experiments Such As Hippocrates Made And Substituted For Vague Speculation Stayed The Ravages Of Plague.

Below The Incandescent Stars / Below The Incandescent Fruit, / The Strange Experience Of Beauty; / Its Existence Is Too Much; / It Tears One To Pieces / And Each Fresh Wave Of Consciousness / Is Poison.

War Is Pillage Versus Resistance And If Illusions Of Magnitude Could Be Transmuted Into Ideals Of Magnanimity, Peace Might Be Realized.

I'm Troubled. I'm Dissatisfied. I'm Irish.