With My Own Group I Like To

I've Had It With These Cheap Sons Of Bitches Who Claim They Love Poetry But Never Buy A Book.

A White Crowned Night Sparrow Sings As The Moon Sets. Thunder Growls Far Off. Our Campfire Is A Single Light. Amongst A Hundred Peaks And Waterfalls. The Manifold Voices Of Falling Water Take All Night. Wrapped In Your Down Bag Starlight On You Cheeks And Eyelids Your Breath Comes And Goes In A Tiny Cloud In The Frosty Night. Ten Thousand Birds Sing In The Sunrise. Ten Thousand Years Revolve Without Change. All This Will Never Be Again.

Men Who Live Like Casanova Are Seldom Interested In Themselves; Their Egocentricity Does Not Give Them Time For Egotism.

The Basic Line In Any Good Verse Is Cadenced... Building It Around The Natural Breath Structures Of Speech.

Erotic Love Is One Of The Highest Forms Of Contemplation.