Only Brooms Know The Devil Still Exists,

For Emily Dickinson Every Philosophical Idea Was A Potential Lover. Metaphysics Is The Realm Of Eternal Seduction Of The Spirit By Ideas.

I'm Not A Stickler For Truth. To Me, Lying In Poetry Is Much More Fun. I'm Against Lying In Life, In Principle, In Any Other Activity Except Poetry.

There Are Knives That Glitter Like Altars In A Dark Church Where They Bring The Cripple And The Imbecile To Be Healed. There's A Woden Block Where Bones Are Broken, Scraped Clean--a River Dried To Its Bed

Words Make Love On The Page Like Flies In The Summer Heat And The Poet Is Only The Bemused Spectator.

The Plain Truth Is We Are Going To Die. Here I Am, A Teeny Spec Surrounded By Boundless Space And Time, Arguing With The Whole Of Creation, Shaking My Fist, Sputtering, Growing Even Eloquent At Times, And Then-poof! I Am Gone. Swept Off Once And For All. I Think That Is Very, Very Funny.