The Poem I Want To Write Is

To Submit To Chance Is To Reveal The Self And Its Obsessions.

One Writes Because One Has Been Touched By The Yearning For And The Despair Of Ever Touching The Other.

I Do Believe That A Poem Needs To Remind The Reader Of His Or Her Own Humanity, Of What They Are, Of What They're Capable Of. Awaken Them, In A Sense, To The Fact That There's A World In Front Of Their Eyes, That They Have A Body, They're Going To Die, The Sky Is Beautiful, It's Fun To Be In A Grassy Field When The Sun Is Shining—those Kinds Of Things.

Only Brooms Know The Devil Still Exists, That The Snow Grows Whiter After A Crow Has Flown Over It

The Plain Truth Is We Are Going To Die. Here I Am, A Teeny Spec Surrounded By Boundless Space And Time, Arguing With The Whole Of Creation, Shaking My Fist, Sputtering, Growing Even Eloquent At Times, And Then-poof! I Am Gone. Swept Off Once And For All. I Think That Is Very, Very Funny.