Permit Me Voyage, Love, Into Your Hands.

I Can Remember Much Forgetfulness.

Let My Lusts Be My Ruin, Then, Since All Else Is A Fake And A Mockery.

The Form Of My Poem Rises Out Of A Past That So Overwhelms The Present With Its Worth And Vision That I'm At A Loss To Explain My Delusion That There Exist Any Real Links Between That Past And A Future Worthy Of It.

I Cannot Figure Out Just What Dadaism Is Beyond An Insane Jumble Of The Four Winds, The Six Senses, And Plum Pudding. But If The Baroness Is To Be A Keystone For It, — Then I Think I Can Possibly Know When It Is Coming And Avoid It.

And Inasmuch As The Bridge Is A Symbol Of All Such Poetry As I Am Interested In Writing It Is My Present Fancy That A Year From Now I'll Be More Contented Working In An Office Than Ever Before.