Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.

... The First Step Of The Terrible Journey Toward Feeling Somebody Should Act, That Ends In Utter Confusion And Hopelessness, East Of The Sun And West Of The Moon.

Therefore Bivouac We On This Great, Blond Highway, Unimpeded By Veiled Scruples, Worn Conundrums. Morning Is Impermanent. Grab Sex Things, Swing Up Over The Horizon Like A Boy On A Fishing Expedition.

In The Increasingly Convincing Darkness The Words Become Palpable, Like A Fruit That Is Too Beautiful To Eat.

Will Occur As Time Grows More Open About It.

It Never Seems To Occur To Anyone That Each Reader Is Different, And That Even Those Who Might Be Said To Resemble Each Other Will Each Bring An Individual Set Of Experiences And References To Their Reading, And Interpret And Misinterpret It According To These.