Talking About The Past Is

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

Life Begins To Happen. My Hoppped Up Husband Drops His Home Disputes, And Hits The Streets To Cruise For Prostitutes

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.