Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.

And We May Be Led, Then, Upward Through More Powerful Forms Of Poetry, Past Columns With Peeling Posters On Them, To The Country Of Indifference. Meanwhile If The Swell Diapasons, Blooms Unhappily And Too Soon, The Little People Are Nonetheless Real.

All Beauty, Resonance, Integrity, Exist By Deprivation Or Logic Of Strange Position.

I'm Heading For A Clean-named Place Like Wisconsin, And Mad As A Jack-o'-lantern, Will Get There Without Help And Nosy Proclivities.

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

A Yak Is A Prehistoric Cabbage; Of That, We Can Be Sure.