Will occur as time grows more open about it.
Silly girls your heads full of boys
I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.
Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
And just as there are no words for the surface, that is, No words to say what it really is, that it is not Superficial but a visible core, then there is No way out of the problem of pathos vs. experience.
It is written in the Book of Usable Minutes That all things have their center in their dying....
The winter does what it can for its children.
The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.
To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets ...
I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
Death is a new office building filled with modern furniture, A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.
A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how....
I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.
I want a bedroom near the sky, an astrologer's cave Where I can fashion eclogues that are chaste and grave.
Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.
Most reckless things are beautiful in some way, and recklessness is what makes experimental art beautiful, just as religions are beautiful because of the strong possibilities that they are founded on nothing.
I am often asked why I write, and I don't know really--I just want to.
Once a happy old man One can never change the core of things, and light burns you the harder for it.
The mind Is so hospitable, taking in everything Like boarders, and you don't see until It's all over how little there was to learn Once the stench of knowledge has dissipated.
You stupefied me. We waxed, Carnivores, late and alight In the beaded winter. All was ominous, luminous.
Until only infinity remained of beauty
But watch out or he'll start with some
New notion or other.... ){kind=small}
Some certified nut Will try to tell you it's poetry, (It's extraordinary, it makes a great deal of sense) But watch out or he'll start with some New notion or other....
So I cradle this average violin that knows Only forgotten showtunes, but argues The possibility of free declamation anchored To a dull refrain....
And the way Though discontinuous, and intermittent, sometimes Not heard of for years at a time, did, Nonetheless, move up, although, to his surprise It was inside the house, And always getting narrower.
Sometimes a musical phrase would perfectly sum up The mood of a moment. One of those lovelorn sonatas For wind instruments was riding past on a solemn white horse. Everybody wondered who the new arrival was.
The ellipse is as aimless as that, Stretching invisibly into the future so as to reappear In our present. Its flexing is its account, Return to the point of no return.
Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
Each servant stamps the reader with a look.
