Others Can Measure Their Visions By What

I Heard You Asking Questions Of Each: Who Killed The Pork Chops? What Price Bananas? Are You My Angel?

To Gain Your Own Voice You Have To Forget About Having It Heard.

The Apparition Of An Evil, Sick Unconscious Wild City Rose Before Me In Visible Semblance, And About The Dead Buildings In The Barren Air, The Bodies Of The Soul That Built The Wonderland Shuffled And Stalked And Stalked And Lurched In Attitudes Of Immemorial Nightmare All Around.

The Typewriter Is Holy The Poem Is Holy The Voice Is Holy The Hearers Are Holy The Ecstacy Is Holy!

When It Snows In Your Nose, You Catch Cold In Your Brain.