The Pronoun Is One Of

He Is Solid; Immovable, Iron-willed. He Showed Me One Day His Killing Bottle. I'm Imprisoned In It. Fluttering Against The Glass. Because I Can See Through It I Still Think I Can Escape. I Have Hope. But It's All An Illusion. A Thick Round Wall Of Glass.

To Write Poetry And To Commit Suicide, Apparently So Contradictory, Had Really Been The Same, Attempts At Escape.

The American Myth Is Of Free Will In Its Simple, Primary Sense. One Can Choose Oneself And Will Oneself; And This Absurdly Optimistic Assumption So Dominates The Republic That It Has Bred All Its Gross Social Injustices.

The Pronoun Is One Of The Most Terrifying Masks Man Has Invented.

He Felt Himself In Suspension Between The Two Worlds, The Warm, Neat Civilization Behind His Back, The Cool, Dark Mystery Outside. We All Write Poems; It Is Simply That Poets Are The Ones Who Write In Words.