When Midlist Writers Are Treated

Like Species, Couples Die Out Or Evolve.

The Politics Of The Exile Are Fever, Revenge, Daydream, Theater Of The Aging Convalescent. You Wait In The Wings And Rehearse. You Wait And Wait.

The Mind Wraps Itself Around A Poem. It Is Almost Sensual, Particularly If You Work On A Computer. You Can Turn The Poem Round And About And Upside Down, Dancing With It A Kind Of Bolero Of Two Snakes Twisting And Coiling, Until The Poem Has Found Its Right And Proper Shape.

The Powerful Don't Make Revolutions

I Wasn't Afraid Of Being Poor; I Rather Took It For Granted. I Was Good At Getting By With Very Little. I Couldn't Imagine Sacrificing My Writing To Anything Else.