Poetry Is A Slipknot Tightened

I Remember The Chillicothe Ballplayers Grappling The Long Island Ball Players In A Sixteen-inning Game Ended By Darkness. And The Shoulders Of The Chillicothe Players Were A Red Smoke Against The Sundown And The Shoulders Of The Rock Island Players Were A Yellow Smoke Against The Sundown. And The Umpire's Voice Was Hoarse Calling Balls And Strikes And Outs And The Umpire's Throat Fought In The Dust For A Song.

Time Is The Coin Of Life. Only You Can Determine How It Will Be Spent.

To Never See A Fool You Lock Yourself In Your Room And Smash The Looking-glass.

Alike And Ever Alike, We Are On All Continents In The Need Of Love, Food, Clothing, Work, Speech, Worship, Sleep, Games, Dancing, Fun. From Tropics To Arctics Humanity Live With These Needs So Alike, So Inexorably Alike.

Poetry Is A Plan For A Slit In The Face Of A Bronze Fountain Goat And The Path Of Fresh Drinking Water.