Read At Whim! Read At Whim!

Robert Frost Says In A Piece Of Homely Doggerel That He Has Hoped Wisdom Could Be Not Only Attic But Laconic, Boeotian Even - "at Least Not Systematic"; But How Systematically Frostian The Worst Of His Later Poems Are! His Good Poems Are The Best Refutation Of, The Most Damning Comment On, His Bad: His Complete Poems Have The Air Of Being Able To Educate Any Faithful Reader Into Tearing Out A Third Of The Pages, Reading A Third, And Practically Wearing Out The Rest.

Most Poets, Most Good Poets Even, No Longer Have The Heart To Write About What Is Most Terrible In The World Of The Present: The Bombs Waiting Beside The Rockets, The Hundreds Of Millions Staring Into The Temporary Shelter Of Their Television Sets, The Decline Of The West That Seems Less A Decline Than The Fall Preceding An Explosion.

From My Mother's Sleep I Fell Into The State, And I Hunched In Its Belly Till My Wet Fur Froze. Six Miles From Earth, Loosed From The Dream Of Life, I Woke To Black Flak And The Nightmare Fighters. When I Died They Washed Me Out Of The Turret With A Hose.

Many Poets Write As If They Had Been Decerebrated, And Not Simply Lobotomized, As A Cure For Their Melancholia.

A Person Is A Process, One That Leads To Death.