The Problem Isn't To Learn To Love

Clouds Out Of Control Decoct Anticipation. What Use Can Any Of Us Have For Two Moons? The Miracle Of Order Has Run Out And I Am Left In An Unmiraculous City Where Anything May Happen.

I Still Believe Pattern Fascinates On Its Own. And Three-sevenths Of A Pattern, Or Even A Smaller Fragment, Can Fascinate Still More--get Us Really Hunkering Down, Trying To Tease Out The Whole Of The Figure In The Carpet.

I Was A Kid Who Liked Art And Theater And Dance And Music, But If You Lived In Harlem, High Culture Was Somewhere Else, And It Wasn't Black.

Suggestion Is A Literary Strategy.

There Is No Articulate Resonance. The Common Problem, I Suppose, Is To Have More To Say Than Vocabulary And Syntax Can Bear. That Is Why I Am Hunting In These Desiccated Streets. The Smoke Hides The Sky's Variety, Stains Consciousness, Covers The Holocaust With Something Safe And Insubstantial. It Protects From Greater Flame. It Indicates Fire, But Obscures The Source. This Is Not A Useful City. Very Little Here Approaches Any Eidolon Of The Beautiful.