The Winter Does What It

Poetry Comes To Me Out Of Thin Air Or Out Of My Unconscious Mind. It's Sort Of The Way Dreams Come To Us And The Way That We Get Knowledge From Them, Through Television, Old Movies, Which I Watch A Lot Of. Lines Of Dialogue Suddenly Seem To Be Part Of A Poem.

The Mind Is So Hospitable, Taking In Everything Like Boarders, And You Don't See Until It's All Over How Little There Was To Learn Once The Stench Of Knowledge Has Dissipated.

A Perfect Example Of The New Republic's Urge To Drape Itself With The Togas Of Classical Respectability.

I Don't Want To Read What Is Going To Slide Down Easily; There Has To Be Some Crunch, A Certain Amount Of Resilience.

What Is The Past, What Is It All For? A Mental Sandwich?