The Act Of Composition Is A Series

The Poem Is A Cry Of The Unborn Heart. Yes, Because The Poem Perfectly Embodies The World, There Is No World Without Poem.

There Are Moments When I Cannot Bear This Unremitting Consciousness. It Knows Only Itself. Awake, I Am In A Continuum With My Dreams. I Feel My Typewriters, My Table, My Chair To Have That Assurance Of A Solid World, Where Things Take Up Space, Where Is Not The Endless Emptiness Of Insubstantial Thought That Leads To Nowhere But Itself. My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon Them Again And Again. They Become More And More Ghostly. I Fear Nothing So Much As Losing Them Altogether And Having Only My Blank Endless Mind To Live In.

And Though The Newspapers Called The Shooting The Crime Of The Century, Goldman Knew It Was Only 1906 And There Were Ninety-four Years To Go.

It Is The Immigrant Hordes Who Keep This Country Alive, The Waves Of Them Arriving Year After Year.... Who Believes In America More Than The People Who Run Down The Gangplank And Kiss The Ground?

The Images Of Things Are Not The Things In Themselves.