Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.