You Are What You Think About All

My Books Piled Up Before Me For My Use Waiting In Space Where I Placed Them, They Haven't Disappeared, Time's Left Its Remnants And Qualities For Me To Use -- My Words Piled Up, My Texts, My Manuscripts, My Loves.

I Really Would Like To Stop Working Forever–never Work Again, Never Do Anything Like The Kind Of Work I’m Doing Now–and Do Nothing But Write Poetry And Have Leisure To Spend The Day Outdoors And Go To Museums And See Friends. And I’d Like To Keep Living With Someone — Maybe Even A Man — And Explore Relationships That Way. And Cultivate My Perceptions, Cultivate The Visionary Thing In Me. Just A Literary And Quiet City-hermit Existence.

So The Problem For The Poetic Artist Or The Photographer Is The Common Problem Of Continuous Attentiveness, Continuous Attempts To Notice What He Is Noticing, Continuous Alertness To Catch Himself Thinking Or Seeing, Devotional Attentiveness To The World He's Moving Through.

It Means Abandoning Being A Poet, Abandoning Your Careerism, Abandoning Even The Idea Of Writing Any Poetry, Really Abandoning, Giving Up As Hopeless - Abandoning The Possibility Of Really Expressing Yourself To The Nations Of The World. Abandoning The Idea Of Being A Prophet With Honor And Dignity, And Abandoning The Glory Of Poetry And Just Settling Down In The Muck Of Your Own Mindyou Really Have To Make A Resolution To Write For Yourself, In The Sense Of Not Writing To Impress Yourself, But Just Writing What Your Self Is Saying.

To Gain Your Own Voice, Forget About Having It Heard. Become A Saint Of Your Own Province And Your Own Consciousness.