Pain Wanders Through My Bones Like A

Too Much Reality Can Be A Dazzle, A Surfeit;too Close Immediacy An Exhaustion

The Poet: Would Rather Eat A Heart Than A Hambone.

Live In A Perpetual Great Astonishment.

But When I Breath With The Birds, The Spirit Of Wrath Becomes The Spirit Of Blessings, And The Dead Begin From Their Dark To Sing In My Sleep.

I Can't Go On Flying Apart Just For Those Who Want The Benefit Of A Few Verbal Kicks. My God, Do You Know What Poems Like That Cost? They're Not Written Vicariously: They Come Out Of Actual Suffering, Real Madness.