The World Is Beautiful But Not Sayable.

The Plain Truth Is We Are Going To Die. Here I Am, A Teeny Spec Surrounded By Boundless Space And Time, Arguing With The Whole Of Creation, Shaking My Fist, Sputtering, Growing Even Eloquent At Times, And Then-poof! I Am Gone. Swept Off Once And For All. I Think That Is Very, Very Funny.

I Was Already Dozing Off In The Shade, Dreaming That The Rustling Trees Were My Many Selves Explaining Themselves All At The Same Time So That I Could Not Make Out A Single Word. My Life Was A Beautiful Mystery On The Verge Of Understanding, Always On The Verge! Think Of It!

The Religion Of The Short Poem, In Every Age And In Every Literature, Has A Single Commandment: Less Is Always More. The Short Poem Rejects Preamble And Summary. It's About All And Everything, The Metaphysics Of A Few Words Surrounded By Much Silence. …the Short Poem Is A Match Flaring Up In A Dark Universe.

The Highest Levels Of Consciousness Are Wordless.

He Who Cannot Howl Will Not Find His Pack.