Why Is It That Whenever I Hear

I'm A Fart In A Gale Of Wind, A Humble Violet Under A Cow Pat.

Why Is It That Whenever I Hear Music I Think I’m A Bride?

When One Wants To Become Cognizant Of The Color And The Texture Of The Soil, One Does Not Get A Ladder; One Gets A Shovel. When One Wants To Get Into Touch With The Texture Of The Universal Mind, One Does Not Go To Boston; One Goes To The Bowery.

I Like My Human Experience Served Up With A Little Silence And Restraint. Silence Makes Experience Go Further And, When It Does Die, Gives It That Dignity Common To A Thing One Had Touched And Not Ravished

I've Seen Death And I Didn't Like It.