The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch

Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.

Forward My Mail To Mars.

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.