I'll Die Propped Up In Bed Trying

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

Not Often In The Story Of Mankind Does A Man Arrive On Earth Who Is Both Steel And Velvet, Who Is As Hard As Rock And Soft As Drifting Fog, Who Holds In His Heart And Mind The Paradox Of Terrible Storm And Peace Unspeakable And Perfect.

Poetry Is A Mystic, Sensuous Mathematics Of Fire, Smoke-stacks, Waffles, Pansies, People, And Purple Sunsets.

Under The Harvest Moon, When The Soft Silver Drips Shimmering Over The Garden Nights, Death, The Gray Mocker, Comes And Whispers To You As A Beautiful Friend Who Remembers.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets The Grease But The Quacking Duck Gets Shot.