I Write Poems To Find Out Why

Each Thing I Do, I Rush Through So I Can Do Something Else. In Such A Way Do The Days Pass - -a Blend Of Stock Car Racing And The Never Ending Building Of A Gothic Cathedral. Through The Windows Of My Speeding Car I See All That I Love Falling Away: Books Unread, Jokes Untold, Landscapes Unvisited.

I Remember Coming Upon Philip Larkin In My 20s In The Early '60s And When Sylvia Plath's "ariel" Came Out It Knocked Me Off My Feet.

I Had A Period When I Read Nobel Prize Winners. I Figured They Had To Be Good. I Discovered Some People I Didn't Know About, Like The Icelandic Writer Halldor Laxness, Who Wrote "independent People." .

I'm Reading "the Sunset Of A Splendid Century" By W.h. Lewis. He Was C.s. Lewis's Brother. He Wrote Two Books About The French Court Of Louis Xiv That Are Incredibly Detailed. They Are Books That On Every Page You Say, "wow, Think Of That."

There Are Many Reasons For Violence. This Is Just Something That Sometimes Happens. We'd See It In Treatment Centers - The Child Who'd Suffered Something Awful. Even In The Best Recovery There'd Be A Fear That Everything Would Fall Apart And They'd Become Victims Again. And Their Final Loyalty Was To Themselves. They Couldn't Be Forced. They Preferred To Wreck Everything, Preferred Self-destruction To Surrender. (175)