The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking

Look At This Poet William Carlos Williams: He Is Primitive And Native, And His Roots Are In Raw Forest And Violent Places; He Is Word-sick And Place-crazy. He Admires Strength, But For What? Violence! This Is The Cult Of The Frontier Mind.

Hardly A Book Of Human Worth, Be It Heaven's Own Secret, Is Honestly Placed Before The Reader; It Is Either Shunned, Given A Periclean Funeral Oration In A Hundred And Fifty Words, Or Interred In The Potter's Field Of The Newspapers Back Pages.

When One Realizes That His Life Is Worthless He Either Commits Suicide Or Travels.

We Cannot Live, Suffer Or Die For Somebody Else, For Suffering Is Too Precious To Be Shared.

Narcissus Never Wrote Well Nor Was A Friend.