The Poem Comes In The Form Of

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

Be What You Are. Give What Is Yours To Give. Have Style. Dare.

Poetry Today Is Easier To Write But Harder To Remember.