The Truth Is Dark Under Your Eyelids.

Found Objects, Chance Creations, Ready-mades (mass-produced Items Promoted Into Art Objects, Such As Duchamp's "fountain"-urinal As Sculpture) Abolish The Separation Between Art And Life. The Commonplace Is Miraculous If Rightly Seen.

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.

A Poem Is An Invitation To A Voyage. As In Life, We Travel To See Fresh Sights.

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence.

In Their Effort To Divorce Language And Experience, Deconstructionist Critics Remind Me Of Middle-class Parents Who Do Not Allow Their Children To Play In The Street.