Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Part Of The Strength Of Pollock And Rothko's Art, In Fact, Is This Doubt As To Whether Art May Be There At All.

It Never Seems To Occur To Anyone That Each Reader Is Different, And That Even Those Who Might Be Said To Resemble Each Other Will Each Bring An Individual Set Of Experiences And References To Their Reading, And Interpret And Misinterpret It According To These.

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.

But Always And Sometimes Questioning The Old Modes And The New Wondering, The Poem, Growing Up Through The Floor, Standing Tall In Tubers, Invading And Smashing The Ritual Parlor, Demands To Be Met On Its Own Terms Now, Now That The Preliminary Negotiations Are At Last Over.

What Is The Past, What Is It All For? A Mental Sandwich?