To Vik Lovell Who Told Me Dragons

Time Overlaps Itself. A Breath Breathed From A Passing Breeze Is Not The Whole Wind, Neither Is It Just The Last Of What Has Passed And The First Of What Will Come, But Is More--let Me See--more Like A Single Point Plucked On A Single Strand Of A Vast Spider Web Of Winds, Setting The Whole Scene Atingle. That Way; It Overlaps ... As Prehistoric Ferns Grow From Bathtub Planters.

You’re Just A Young Kid. What Are You Doin’ Here? You Oughta Be Out In A Convertible, Why… Bird-doggin’ Chicks And Bangin’ Beaver. What Are Ya Doin’ Here, For Christ’s Sake? What’s Funny About That? Jesus, I Mean, You Guys Do Nothin’ But Complain About How You Can’t Stand It In This Place Here And Then You Haven’t Got The Guts Just To Walk Out!

Turns Me On So Loud It's Like No Sound, Everybody Yelling At Me Hands Over Their Ears From Behind A Glass Wall, Faces Working Around In Talk Circles But No Sound From The Mouths. My Sound Soaks Up All Other Sound.

The Frontiers We Broke Into In The '60s Are Still Largely Unexplored.

The Flock Gets Sight Of A Spot Of Blood On Some Chicken And They All Go To Peckin' At It, See, Till They Rip The Chicken To Shreds, Blood And Bones And Feathers. But Usually A Couple Of The Flock Gets Spotted In The Fracas, Then It's Their Turn. And A Few More Gets Spots And Gets Pecked To Death, And More And More. Oh, A Peckin' Party Can Wipe Out The Whole Flock In A Matter Of A Few Hours, Buddy, I Seen It. A Mighty Awesome Sight. The Only Way To Prevent It—with Chickens—is To Clip Blinders On Them. So's They Can't See.