When It Snows In Your Nose, You

America, Why Are Your Libraries Full Of Tears?

Who Burned Cigarette Holes In Their Arms Protesting The Narcotic Tobacco Haze Of Capitalism

I Am Learning By The Week, But My Poesy Is Still Not My Own. New Rhyme, New Me Me Me In Words. I Am Not All This Carven Rhetoric.

My Books Piled Up Before Me For My Use Waiting In Space Where I Placed Them, They Haven't Disappeared, Time's Left Its Remnants And Qualities For Me To Use -- My Words Piled Up, My Texts, My Manuscripts, My Loves.

Recent History Is The Record Of One Vast Conspiracy To Impose One Level Of Mechanical Consciousness On Mankind.