My Head Is Full Of Fire And

The Two Elements The Traveler First Captures In The Big City Are Extra Human Architecture And Furious Rhythm. Geometry And Anguish.

New York Is A Meeting Place For Every Race In The World, But The Chinese, Armenians, Russians, And Germans Remain Foreigners. So Does Everyone Except The Blacks. There Is No Doubt But That The Blacks Exercise Great Influence In North America, And, No Matter What Anyone Says, They Are The Most Delicate, Spiritual Element In That World.

Death, Vicious Death, Leave A Green Branch For Love.

My Poetry Is A Game. My Life Is A Game. But I Am Not A Game.

Devoutly The Teachers Point Out Huge Fumigated Domes; But Beneath The Statues There's No Love, No Love Beneath The Eyes Set In Crystal. Love Is There, In Flesh Ripped By Thirst, In The Tiny Hut Struggling Against The Flood; Love Is There, In Ditches Where Snakes Of Hunger Wrestle, In The Sad Sea That Rocks Dead Gulls, And In The Darkest Stinging Kiss Under Pillows.