The Gray Glaze Of The Past Attacks

The Soul Is Not A Soul, Has No Secret, Is Small, And It Fits Its Hollow Perfectly: Its Room, Our Moment Of Attention.

My Feeling Is That Most Political Poetry Is Preaching To The Choir, And That The People Who Are Going To Make The Political Changes In Our Lives Are Not The People Who Read Poetry, Unfortunately. Poetry Not Specifically Aimed At Political Revolution, Though, Is Beneficial In Moving People Toward That Kind Of Action, As Well As Other Kinds Of Action. A Good Poem Makes Me Want To Be Active On As Many Fronts As Possible.

How Funny Your Name Would Be If You Could Follow It Back To Where The First Person Thought Of Saying It, Naming Himself That, Or Maybe Some Other Persons Thought Of It And Named That Person. It Would Be Like Following A River To Its Source, Which Would Be Impossible. Rivers Have No Source.

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.