A Liar Goes In Fine Clothes, A

A Tough Will Counts. So Does Desire.so Does A Rich Soft Wanting.without Rich Wanting Nothing Arrives.

And Even Now She Beats Her Head Against The Bars In The Same Old Way And Wonders If There Is A Bigger Place The Railroads Run To From Chicago Where Maybe There Is Romance And Big Things And Real Dreams That Never Go Smash.

Poetry Is The Report Of A Nuance Between Two Moments, When People Say, 'listen!' And 'did You See It?' 'did You Hear It? What Was It?'

Poetry Is Any Page From A Sketchbook Of Outlines Of A Doorknob With Thumb-prints Of Dust, Blood, Dreams.

Drum On Your Drums, Batter On Your Banjos, Sob On The Long Cool Winding Saxophones. Go To It, O Jazzmen.