O Love, Where Are You Leading Me

Communication Is Mutual Feeling With Someone, Not A Didactic Process Of Information.

Writing Is The Same As Music. It’s In How You Phrase It, How You Hold Back The Note, Bend It, Shape It, Then Release It. And What You Don’t Play Is As Important As What You Do Say.

It Is Hard Going To The Door Cut So Small In The Wall Where The Vision Which Echoes Loneliness Brings A Scent Of Wild Flowers In The Wood.

I Will Go To The Garden. I Will Be A Romantic. I Will Sell Myself In Hell, In Heaven Also I Will Be.

Still, No One Finally Knows What A Poet Is Supposed Either To Be Or To Do. Especially In This Country, One Takes On The Job—because All That One Does In America Is Considered A "job"—with No Clear Sense As To What Is Required Or Where One Will Ultimately Be Led. In That Respect, It Is As Particular An Instance Of A "calling" As One Might Point To. For Years I've Kept In Mind, "many Are Called But Few Are Chosen." Even So "called," There Were No Assurances That One Would Be Answered.