Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime