Poetry Is A Dividend From What You

When A Writer Is Born Into A Family, The Family Is Finished.

A True Opium Of The People Is A Belief In Nothingness After Death - The Huge Solace Of Thinking That For Our Betrayals, Greed, Cowardice, Murders We Are Not Going To Be Judged.

Leaves Glowing In The Sun, Zealous Hum Of Bumblebees, From Afar, From Somewhere Beyond The River, Echoes Of Lingering Voices And The Unhurried Sounds Of A Hammer Gave Joy Not Only To Me. Before The Five Senses Were Opened, And Earlier Than Any Beginning They Waited, Ready, For All Those Who Would Call Themselves Mortals, So That They Might Praise, As I Do, Life, That Is, Happiness.

They Used To Pour Millet On Graves Or Poppy Seeds To Feed The Dead Who Would Come Disguised As Birds. I Put This Book Here For You, Who Once Lived So That You Should Visit Us No More.

I Am Not My Own Friend.time Cuts Me In Two.