Not Until It Starts To Stink Does

I Don't Find Any Direct Statements In Life. My Poetry Imitates Or Reproduces The Way Knowledge Or Awareness Come To Me, Which Is By Fits And Starts And By Indirection. I Don't Think Poetry Arranged In Neat Patterns Would Reflect That Situation. My Poetry Is Disjunct, But Then So Is Life.

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

The Summer Demands And Takes Away Too Much. /but Night, The Reserved, The Reticent, Gives More Than It Takes

This Whole Moment Is The Groin Of A Borborygmic Giant Who Even Now Is Rolling Over On Us In His Sleep.

Until, Accustomed To Disappointments, You Can Let Yourself Rule And Be Ruled By These Strings Or Emanations That Connect Everything Together, You Haven't Fully Exorcised The Demon Of Doubt That Sets You In Motion Like A Rocking Horse That Cannot Stop Rocking.