Sometimes A Musical Phrase Would Perfectly Sum

Part Of The Strength Of Pollock And Rothko's Art, In Fact, Is This Doubt As To Whether Art May Be There At All.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.

In The Increasingly Convincing Darkness The Words Become Palpable, Like A Fruit That Is Too Beautiful To Eat.

The Sun Fades Like The Spreading Of A Peacock's Tail, As Though Twilight Might Be Read As A Warning To Those Desperate For Easy Solutions.

The Promise Of Learning Is A Delusion.... Tomorrow Would Alter The Sense Of What Had Already Been Learned, That The Learning Process Is Extended In This Way, So That From This Standpoint None Of Us Ever Graduates From College, For Time Is An Emulsion, And Probably Thinking Not To Grow Up Is The Brightest Kind Of Maturity For Us, Right Now At Any Rate.