Poetry Is A Diary Kept By A

Poetry Is A Slipknot Tightened Around A Time-beat Of One Thought, Two Thoughts, And A Last Interweaving Thought There Is Not Yet A Number For.

There Will Be A Rusty Gun On The Wall, Sweetheart, The Rifle Grooves Curling With Flakes Of Rust. A Spider Will Make A Silver String Nest In The Darkest, Warmest Corner Of It.

Whenever A People Or An Institution Forget Its Hard Beginnings, It Is Beginning To Decay.

Arithmetic Is Numbers You Squeeze From Your Head To Your Hand To Your Pencil To Your Paper Till You Get The Answer.

Here Is The Difference Between Dante, Milton, And Me. They Wrote About Hell And Never Saw The Place. I Wrote About Chicago After Looking The Town Over For Years And Years.