It Was Here We Turned The Coffee

Whenever A People Or An Institution Forget Its Hard Beginnings, It Is Beginning To Decay.

Poetry Is A Puppet-show, Where Riders Of Skyrockets And Divers Of Sea Fathoms Gossip About The Sixth Sense And The Fourth Dimension.

Poetry Is A Theorem Of A Yellow-silk Handkerchief Knotted With Riddles, Sealed In A Balloon Tied To The Tail Of A Kite Flying In A White Wind Against A Blue Sky In Spring.

There Are Ten Men In Me And I Do Not Know Or Understand One Of Them.

Come Clean With A Child Heart Laugh As Peaches In The Summer Wind Let Rain On A House Roof Be A Song Let The Writing On Your Face Be A Smell Of Apple Orchards On Late June.