Not Until It Starts To Stink Does

I Don't Look On Poetry As Closed Works. I Feel They're Going On All The Time In My Head And I Occasionally Snip Off A Length.

Just When I Thought There Wasn't Room Enough For Another Thought In My Head, I Had This Great Idea—

Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.

We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented Sink. The Soft Enchantments Of Our Years Of Innocence Are Harvested By Accredited Experience Our Fondest Memories Soon Turn To Poison And Only Oblivion Remains In Season.

Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their Objects Find?