Well, I Didn't Know How To Draw

Well, I Didn't Know How To Draw Very Well Back Then, In The '40s And '50s.

If You Would Be A Poet, Write Living Newspapers. Be A Reporter From Outer Space, Filing Dispatches To Some Supreme Managing Editor Who Believes In Full Disclosure And Has A Low Tolerance For Bullshit.

[in The True Mad North] Of Introspection, Where 'falcons Of The Inner Eye' Dive And Die, Glimpsing In Their Dying Fall, All Life's Memory Of Existence.

Poetry Must Be Capable Of Answering The Challenge Of Apocalytpic Times, Even If This Means Sounding Apocaltypic.

We'd Like To Just Write Nothing But Lyric Poetry. The Trouble Is, The Individual Is Going Along Intent On His Own Personal Gratifications And Love Affairs And Financial Affairs And Everything Else. But Loping Alongside Him Is This Fascist Lout Who Keeps Trying To Take Over. And If You Keep Ignoring Him, He Gets Bigger And Bigger, So Every Once In A While The Free Individual Has To Turn Away From His Private Pursuits And Give This Fascist Lout A Few Clouts, And Beat Him Down To Size.