I Don't Look On Poetry As Closed

Will Occur As Time Grows More Open About It.

I Feel That Poetry Is Going On All The Time Inside, An Underground Stream.

All Beauty, Resonance, Integrity, Exist By Deprivation Or Logic Of Strange Position.

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

I'm Heading For A Clean-named Place Like Wisconsin, And Mad As A Jack-o'-lantern, Will Get There Without Help And Nosy Proclivities.