I Had Been Warned About

Without Vision You Don't See, And Without Practicality The Bills Don't Get Paid.

Writing Is Like This -- You Dredge For The Poem's Meaning The Way Police Dredge For A Body. They Think It Is Down There Under The Black Water, They Work The Grappling Hooks Back And Forth.

Verse Is Not Written, It Is Bled; Out Of The Poet's Abstract Head. Words Drip The Poem On The Page; Out Of His Grief, Delight And Rage.

The Years Rolled Their Brutal Course Down The Hill Of Time. Still Poor, My Clothes Still Smelling Of The Horse Barn, Still Writing Those Doubtful Poems Where Too Much Emotion Clashed With Too Many Words.

You Come To Know The Aches And Vanities And Tastes And Intrigues Of An Entire Neighborhood At A Drug Store.