Zen Aims At Freedom But Its Practice

All This New Stuff Goes On Top Turn It Over, Turn It Over Wait And Water Down From The Dark Bottom Turn It Inside Out Let It Spread Through Sift Down Even. Watch It Sprout. A Mind Like Compost.

I Recalled When I Worked In The Woods And The Bars Of Madras, Oregon. That Short-haired Joy And Roughness America Your Stupidity. I Could Almost Love You Again.

As A Poet I Hold The Most Archaic Values On Earth . . . The Fertility Of The Soil, The Magic Of Animals, The Power-vision In Solitude, The Terrifying Initiation And Rebirth, The Love And Ecstasy Of The Dance, The Common Work Of The Tribe. I Try To Hold Both History And The Wilderness In Mind, That My Poems May Approach The True Measure Of Things And Stand Against The Unbalance And Ignorance Of Our Times.

Wildness It Is Perennially Within Us, Dormant As A Hard-shelled Seed, Awaiting The Fire Or Flood That Awakes It Again.

Poetry A Riprap On The Slick Rock Of Metaphysics