He Who Cannot Howl Will Not Find

There’s No Preparation For Poetry.

To Submit To Chance Is To Reveal The Self And Its Obsessions.

I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The Way Absent-minded People Leave Gloves And Umbrellas Whose Colors Are Sad From Dispensing So Much Bad Luck

Wanted: A Needle Swift Enough To Sew This Poem Into A Blanket.

A 'truth' Detached And Purified Of Pleasures Of Ordinary Life Is Not Worth A Damn In My View. Every Grand Theory And Noble Sentiment Ought To Be First Tested In The Kitchen-and Then In Bed, Of Course.