The Artist Is The Antenna Of The

Colloquial Poetry Is To The Real Art As The Barber's Wax Dummy Is To Sculpture.

I Would Hold The Rosy, Slender Fingers Of The Dawn For You.

What Thou Lovest Well Remains, The Rest Is Dross What Thou Lov’st Well Shall Not Be Reft From Thee What Thou Lov’st Well Is Thy True Heritage

I Dunno What My 23 Infantile Years In America Signify. I Left As Soon As Motion Was Autarchic -- I Mean My Motion.

We Do Not Know The Past In Chronological Sequence. It May Be Convenient To Lay It Out Anesthetized On The Table With Dates Pasted On Here And There, But What We Know We Know By Ripples And Spirals Eddying Out From Us And From Our Own Time.