An American Is A Complex Of Occasions,

O.k. I'm Running Out Of Appetite. Let This Swirl- A Bit Like Crab Nebula- Do For Now.

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.

Dead, Hung Up Indoors, The Kingfisher Will Not Indicate A Favoring Wind, Or Avert The Thunderbolt.

Fact Is Based Upon Vulgar Matter.

I Don't Live For Poetry. I Live Far More Than Anybody Else Does.