I Have Thought For A Long Time

There Is A Kind Of Poetry, Bad And Good, In Evrything, Everywhere We Look.

The Head Has Its Confines. The Head’s Got Those All Right, And The Heart. The Heart Has Its Reasons.

All We Are Is Eyes Looking For The Unbroken Or The Edges Where The Broken Bits Might Fit Each Other.

The Whole Point Is, We Can Forget. It’s Important That We Forget Some Things. Otherwise We’d Go Round The World Carrying A Hodload Of Stuff We Just Don’t Need.

Nothing Is Harmful To Literature Except Censorship, And That Almost Never Stops Literature Going Where It Wants To Go Either, Because Literature Has A Way Of Surpassing Everything That Blocks It And Growing Stronger For The Exercise.