Poetry Is A Kinetic Arrangement Of Static

I See America, Not In The Setting Sun Of A Black Night Of Despair Ahead Of Us, I See America In The Crimson Light Of A Rising Sun Fresh From The Burning, Creative Hand Of God. I See Great Days Ahead, Great Days Possible To Men And Women Of Will And Vision.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets The Grease But The Quacking Duck Gets Shot.

The Sea Speaks A Language Polite People Never Repeat. It Is A Colossal Scavenger Slang And Has No Respect.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

There Is An Eagle In Me That Wants To Soar.