Against The Dark Background Of This Contemporary

The Poet Does Not Know - Often He Will Never Know - Whom He Really Writes For.

Art Is The Production Of Objects For Consumption, To Be Used And Discarded While Waiting For A New World In Which Man Will Have Succeeded In Freeing Himself Of Everything, Even Of His Own Consciousness.

Happiness, For You We Walk On A Knife Edge. To The Eyes You Are A Flickering Light, To The Feet, Thin Ice That Cracks; And So May No One Touch You Who Loves You.

However, Poetry Does Not Live Solely In Books Or In School Anthologies.

Evidently The Arts, All The Visual Arts, Are Becoming More Democratic In The Worst Sense Of The Word.