The Poetry Is Myself.

Truth-tellers Are Not Always Palatable. There Is A Preference For Candy Bars.

With Melted Opals For My Milk, Pearl-leaf For My Cracker.

We Real Cool. We Left School. We Lurk Late. We Strike Straight. We Sing Sin. We Thin Gin. We Jazz June. We Die Soon.

Words Can Do Wonderful Things. They Pound, Purr. They Can Urge, They Can Wheedle, Whip, Whine. They Can Sing, Sass, Singe. They Can Churn, Check, Channelize. They Can Be A "hup Two Three Four." They Can Forge A Fiery Army Of A Hundred Languid Men.

A Poem Doesn't Do Everything For You. You Are Supposed To Go On With Your Thinking. You Are Supposed To Enrich The Other Person's Poem With Your Extensions, Your Uniquely Personal Understandings, Thus Making The Poem Serve You.