Scientist Alone Is True Poet.

We Love To Be Hurt And We Love To Have Our Unhealing Wounds Opened And Reopened Again: We Sit Staring In The Mirror Of Art, Fascinated By Our Own Deformities.

To Get On Screen With The Talking Asshole, Quite A Feat. And It's Certainly Going To Be A Cult Film That People Will Be Seeing.

We Are All Exposed To The Flash Bulb Of Death.

How Sick I Am! That Thought Always Comes To Me With Horror. Is It This Strange For Everybody? But Such Fugitive Feelings Have Always Been My Metier.

I Saw You, Walt Whitman, Childless, Lonely Old Grubber,poking Among The Meats In The Refrigerator And Eyeing The Grocery Boys. I Heard You Asking Questions Of Each: Who Killed The Pork Chops? What Price Bananas? Are You My Angel?