There Are A Lot Of Editorials That

Oh Well, I Will Say Here, Knowing Each Man, Let You Find A Good Wife Too, And Love Her As Hard As You Can.

I Heard Words And Words Full Of Holes Aching.

As I Get Older, I Recognize That My Thinking About Poetry May Or May Not Have Anything Actively To Do With My Actual Work As A Poet. This Strikes Me As No Thing Cynically Awry But Rather Seems Again Instance Of That Hapless Or Possibly Happy Fact, We Do Not As Humans Seem Necessarily Aware Of What We Are Physically Or Psychically Doing At All!

Suddenly The Whole Imagination Of Writing And Editorial And Newspaper And All These Presumptions About Who Am I Reading This, And Who Else Other People May Be, And All That, It's So Grimly Brutal!

My Nature Is A Quagmire Of Unresolved Confessions.