With My Own Group I Like To

Any Talented Decadent Can Make Unreality Believable. To Make Reality Convincing Is Another Matter, A Matter For Only The Greatest Masters.

Poetry Has Ceased To Be A Public Art And Has Become, As Whitehead Said Of Religion, "what Man Does With His Aloneness.

We Have Forgotten Love, And Sat Lonely Beside Each Other. We Have Eaten Together, Lonely Behind Our Plates, We Have Hidden Behind Children, We Have Slept Together In A Lonely Bed. Now My Heart Turns Toward You, Awake At Last, Penitent, Lost In The Last Loneliness. Speak To Me. Talk To Me. Break The Black Silence.

Now I Know Surely And Forever, However Much I Have Blotted Our Waking Love, Its Memory Is Still There. And I Know The Web, The Net, The Blind And Crippled Bird. For Then, For One Brief Instant It Was Not Blind, Nor Trapped, Not Crippled. For One Heart Beat The Heart Was Free And Moved Itself. O Love, I Who Am Lost And Damned With Words, Whose Words Are A Business And An Art, I Have No Words. These Words, This Poem, This Is All Confusion And Ignorance. But I Know That Coached By Your Sweet Heart, My Heart Beat One Free Beat And Sent Through All My Flesh The Blood Of Truth.

It Takes Great Labor To Uncover The Convincing Simple Speech Of The Heart. Poetic Candor Comes With Hard Labor, So Even Does Impetuosity And Impudence.