The Hero Surviving His Own Murder, His

We're Not Our Skin Of Grime, We're Not Our Dread Bleak Dusty Imageless Locomotive, We're All Beautiful Golden Sunflowers Inside, We're Blessed By Our Own Seed & Hairy Naked Accomplishment-bodies Growing Into Mad Black Formal Sunflowers In The Sunset, Spied On By Our Eyes Under The Shadow Of The Mad Locomotive Riverbank Sunset Frisco Hilly Tincan Evening Sitdown Vision.

You Say What You Want To Say When You Don't Care Who's Listening. If You're Grasping To Get Your Own Voice, You're Making A Strained Attempt To Talk, So It's A Matter Of Just Listening To Yourself As You Sound When You're Talking About Something That's Intensely Important To You.

Strange Now To Think Of You, Gone Without Corsets & Eyes, While I Walk On The Sunny Pavement Of Greenwich Village. Downtown Manhattan, Clear Winter Noon, And I've Been Up All Night, Talking, Talking, Reading The Kaddish Aloud, Listening To Ray Charles Blues Shout Blind On The Phonograph

Because Systems Of Mass Communication Can Communicate Only Officially Acceptable Levels Of Reality, No One Can Know The Extent Of The Secret Unconscious Life. No One In America Can Know What Will Happen. No One Is In Real Control.

I Like The Image Of The Old Man And The Sea, Of Striving And Succeeding But Finding That The Success Was Ghost Success. In Other Words, In The Long Run, After A Certain Age, The Motives For Success, Pride Or Oppressing People Or Getting Power.