Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

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.

But Always And Sometimes Questioning The Old Modes And The New Wondering, The Poem, Growing Up Through The Floor, Standing Tall In Tubers, Invading And Smashing The Ritual Parlor, Demands To Be Met On Its Own Terms Now, Now That The Preliminary Negotiations Are At Last Over.

The Gray Glaze Of The Past Attacks All Know-how...

This Whole Moment Is The Groin Of A Borborygmic Giant Who Even Now Is Rolling Over On Us In His Sleep.

And We May Be Led, Then, Upward Through More Powerful Forms Of Poetry, Past Columns With Peeling Posters On Them, To The Country Of Indifference. Meanwhile If The Swell Diapasons, Blooms Unhappily And Too Soon, The Little People Are Nonetheless Real.