I Want To Become Acutely

For Me, Poetry Is An Evasion Of The Real Job Of Writing Prose.

I Am Still Raw. I Say I May Be Back. You Know What Lies Are For. Even In Your Zen Heaven We Shan't Meet.

They Would Grow Old. They Would Forget Me.

There Is A Certain Clinical Satisfaction In Seeing Just How Bad Things Can Get.

The Constant Struggle In Mature Life, I Think, Is To Accept The Necessity Of Tragedy And Conflict, And Not To Try To Escape To Some Falsely Simple Solution Which Does Not Include These More Somber Complexities.