Art Is A Mystery. A

I Thank You God For This Most Amazing Day, For The Leaping Greenly Spirits Of Trees, And For The Blue Dream Of Sky And For Everything Which Is Natural, Which Is Infinite, Which Is Yes.

All Ignorance Toboggans Into Know And Trudges Up To Ignorance Again.

(and From My Thighs Which Shrug And Pant A Murdering Rain Leapingly Reaches The Upward Singular Deepest Flower Which She Carries In A Gesture Of Her Hips)

The Hardest Fight A Man Has To Fight Is To Live In A World Where Every Single Day Someone Is Trying To Make You Someone You Do Not Want To Be--

So Far As I Am Concerned, Poetry And Every Other Art Was And Is And Forever Will Be Strictly And Distinctly A Question Of Individuality... If Poetry Is Your Goal, You've Got To Forget All About Punishments And All About Rewards And All About Self-styled Obligations And Duties And Responsibilities Etcetera Ad Infinitum And Remember One Thing Only: That It's You - Nobody Else - Who Determine Your Destiny And Decide Your Fate. Nobody Else Can Be Alive For You; Nor Can You Be Alive For Anybody Else... There's The Artist's Responsibility; And The Most Awful Responsibility On Earth.