The Purpose Of Torture Is Not Getting

The Poet, Distracted By Politics, Asks Of Poetry That It Make Itself Useful Like Metal Or Flour, That It Get Ready To Stain Its Face With Coal Dust And Fight Body To Body.

Memory. My Poison, My Food.

Utopia Lies At The Horizon. When I Draw Nearer By Two Steps, It Retreats Two Steps. If I Proceed Ten Steps Forward, It Swiftly Slips Ten Steps Ahead. No Matter How Far I Go, I Can Never Reach It. What, Then, Is The Purpose Of Utopia? It Is To Cause Us To Advance.

Poets And Beggars, Musicians And Prophets, Warriors And Scoundrels, All Creatures Of That Unbridled Reality, We Have Had To Ask But Little Of Our Imagination, For Our Crucial Problem Has Been A Lack Of Conventional Means To Render Our Lives Believable. This, My Friends, Is The Crux Of Our Solitude.

The Ball Laughs, Radiant, In The Air. He Brings Her Down, Puts Her To Sleep, Showers Her With Compliments, Dances With Her, And Seeing Such Things Never Before Seen His Admirers Pity Their Unborn Grandchildren Who Will Never See Them.