Poetry: A Sliver Of The Moon Lost

Strange Things Blow In Through My Window On The Wings Of The Night Wind And I Don't Worry About My Destiny.

Man Is A Long Time Coming. Man Will Yet Win. Brother May Yet Line Up With Brother: This Old Anvil Laughs At Many Broken Hammers.there Are Men Who Can't Be Bought.

Poetry Is A Tracing Of The Trajectories Of A Finite Sound To The Infinite Points Of Its Echoes.

Poetry Is A Projection Across Silence Of Cadences Arranged To Break That Silence With Definite Intentions Of Echoes, Syllables, Wave Lengths.

The More Rhymethere Isin Poetry The More Dangerof Its Tricking The Writer Into Something Other Than The Urge In The Beginning.