What One Wants To Do

One May Decide That The Nipple Most Nearly Resembles A Newly Ripened Raspberry (never, Be It Noted, The Plonk Of Water On A Pond At The Commencement Of A Drizzle, A Simple Bladder Nozzle Built On The Suction Principal Gum Bubble, Mole, Or Birth Ward, Bumpy Metal Button, Or The Painful Red Eruption Of A Swelling), But Does One Care To See His Breakfast Fruit As A Sweetened Milky Bowl Of Snipped Nips? No.

[as] Authorities "over" Us Are Removed, As We Wobble Out On Our Own, The Question Of Whether To Be Or Not To Be Arises With Real Relevance For The First Time, Since The Burden Of Being Is Felt Most Fully By The Self-determining Self.

I Don't Know Myself, What To Do, Where To Go... I Lie In The Crack Of A Book For My Comfort... It's What The World Offers... Please Leave Me Alone To Dream As I Fancy.

I Publish A Piece In Order To Kill It, So That I Won't Have To Fool Around With It Any Longer.

In General, I Would Think That At Present Prose Writers Are Much In Advance Of The Poets. In The Old Days, I Read More Poetry Than Prose, But Now It Is In Prose Where You Find Things Being Put Together Well, Where There Is Great Ambition, And Equal Talent. Poets Have Gotten So Careless, It Is A Disgrace. You Can’t Pick Up A Page. All The Words Slide Off.