Style Is The Answer To Everything. A

Thanksgiving. It Proved You Had Survived Another Year With Its Wars, Inflation, Unemployment, Smog, Presidents. It Was A Grand Neurotic Gathering Of Clans: Loud Drunks, Grandmothers, Sisters, Aunts, Screaming Children, Would-be Suicides. And Don't Forget Indigestion. I Wasn't Different From Anyone Else: There Sat The 18-pound Bird On My Sink, Dead, Plucked, Totally Disemboweled. Iris Would Roast It For Me.

There Are So Many Days When Living Stops And Pulls Up And Sits And Waits Like A Train On The Rails.

Bad Luck For The Young Poet Would Be A Rich Father, An Early Marriage, An Early Success Or The Ability To Do Anything Well.

The Night Kept Coming On In And There Was Nothing I Could Do.

Some Lose All Mind And Become Soul,insane. Some Lose All Soul And Become Mind, Intellectual. Some Lose Both And Become Accepted