Go Out And Do Something. It Isn’t

I Deserve That, Don't I, Some Sort Of Blazing Love That I Can Live With.

Only I Wasn't Steering Anything, Not Even Myself.

Before I Give My Body, I Must Give My Thoughts, My Mind, My Dreams.

I Felt Dumb And Subdued. Every Time I Tried To Concentrate, My Mind Glided Off, Like A Skater, Into A Large Empty Space, And Pirouetted There, Absently.

Poetry, I Feel, Is A Tyrannical Discipline. You've Got To Go So Far, So Fast, In Such A Small Space, That You've Got To Burn Away All The Peripherals.