Every Weirdo In The World Is On

You Go From Dream To Dream Inside Me. You Have Passage To My Last Shabby Corner, And There, Among The Debris, You’ve Found Life. I’m No Longer Sure Which Of All The Words, Images, Dreams Or Ghosts Are ‘yours’ And Which Are ‘mine.’ It’s Past Sorting Out.

You May Never Get To Touch The Master, But You Can Tickle His Creatures.

She Thougt Of Sunrise Over The Library Slope At Cornell University That Nobody Out On It Had Seen Because The Slope Faces West.

He Gazes Through Sunlight's Buttresses, Back Down The Refectory At The Others, Wallowing In Their Plenitude Of Bananas, Thick Palatals Of Their Hunger Lost Somewhere In The Stretch Of Morning Between Them And Himself. A Hundred Miles Of It, So Suddenly. Solitude, Even Among The Meshes Of This War, Can When It Wishes So Take Him By The Blind Gut And Touch, As Now, Possessively. Pirate's Again Some Other Side Of A Window, Watching Strangers Eat Breakfast.

The Anarchist Is Dressed All In Black. In The Dark You Can Only See His Eyes. It Dates From The 1930's. Porky Pig Is A Little Boy. The Children Told Me That He Has A Nephew Now, Cicero. Do You Remember, During The War, When Porky Worked In A Defense Plant? He And Bugs Bunny. That Was A Good One Too.