Poetry Is A Mock Of A Cry

Under The Harvest Moon, When The Soft Silver Drips Shimmering Over The Garden Nights, Death, The Gray Mocker, Comes And Whispers To You As A Beautiful Friend Who Remembers.

By Night The Skyscraper Looms In The Smoke And The Stars And Has A Soul.

We Live In The Time Of The Colossal Upright Oblong.

The Dead Hold In Their Hands Only What They Have Given Away.

I Decided I Would Go To Chicago And Try My Luck As A Writer After Those Eight Months As A Fireman.