I Understand The Power And The Alarm

Love's Ship Has Foundered On The Rocks Of Life. We're Quits: Stupid To Draw Up A List Of Mutual Sorrows, Hurts And Pains.

In The Church Of My Heart The Choir Is On Fire

Too Slow, The Wagons Of Years, The Oxen Of Days--too Glum. Our God Is The God Of Speed, Our Heart--our Battle-drum.

They Stood Brow To Brow, Brown To White, Black To Black, He Supporting Her Elbows, She Playing Her Limp Light Fingers Over His Collarbone, And How He "ladored,"he Said, The Dark Aroma Of Her Hair Blending With Crushed Lily Stalks, Turkish Cigarettes And The Lassitude That Comes From "lass." "no, No, Don't," She Said, I Must Wash, Quick-quick, Ada Must Wash; But For Yet Another Immortal Moment They Stood Embraced In The Hushed Avenue, Enjoying As They Had Never Enjoyed Before, The "happy-forever" Feeling At The End Of Never-ending Fairy Tales.

Art Must Not Be Concentrated In Dead Shrines Called Museums. Lt Must Be Spread Everywhere – On The Streets, In The Trams, Factories, Workshops, And In The Workers' Homes.