We're All Golden Sunflowers Inside.

You Can't Photograph Everything.

The Apparition Of An Evil, Sick Unconscious Wild City Rose Before Me In Visible Semblance, And About The Dead Buildings In The Barren Air, The Bodies Of The Soul That Built The Wonderland Shuffled And Stalked And Stalked And Lurched In Attitudes Of Immemorial Nightmare All Around.

Who’ll Come Lie Down In The Dark With Me Belly To Belly And Knee To Knee Who’ll Look Into My Hooded Eye Who’ll Lie Down Under My Darkened Thigh?

The Typewriter Is Holy The Poem Is Holy The Voice Is Holy The Hearers Are Holy The Ecstacy Is Holy!

I Like The Image Of The Old Man And The Sea, Of Striving And Succeeding But Finding That The Success Was Ghost Success. In Other Words, In The Long Run, After A Certain Age, The Motives For Success, Pride Or Oppressing People Or Getting Power.