Poetry Which Owes No Man Anything, Owes

Around, Around The Sun We Go: The Moon Goes Round The Earth. We Do Not Die Of Death: We Die Of Vertigo.

If The Art Of Poetry Is?the Art Of Making Sense Of The Chaos Of Human Experience, It's Not A Bad Thing To See A Lot Of Chaos.

Without Guilt / What Is A Man? An Animal, Isn't He? / A Wolf Forgiven At His Meat, / A Beetle Innocent In His Copulation.

The Dissenter Is Every Human Being At Those Moments Of His Life When He Resigns Momentarily From The Herd And Thinks For Himself.

Freedom Is The Right To Choose: The Right To Create For Oneself The Alternatives Of Choice. Without The Possibility Of Choice And The Exercise Of Choice A Man Is Not A Man But A Member, An Instrument, A Thing.