If You Like My Poems Let Them

And It's You Are Whatever A Moon Has Always Meant And Whatever A Sun Will Always Sing Is You

(and From My Thighs Which Shrug And Pant A Murdering Rain Leapingly Reaches The Upward Singular Deepest Flower Which She Carries In A Gesture Of Her Hips)

In The Street Of The Sky Night Walks Scattering Poems

It's No Use Trying To Pretend That Mostpeople And Ourselves Are Alike. Mostpeople Have Less In Common With Ourselves Than Thesquarerootofminusone. You And I Are Human Beings; Mostpeople Are Snobs.

Suppose Life Is An Old Man Carrying Flowers On His Head.