Talking About The Past Is Like A

It's A Completely Powerful And Serious Book, As Good As Anything In Prose Or Poetry Written By A 'beat' Writer, And One Of The Most Alive Books Written By Any American For Years. I Don't See How It Could Be Considered Immoral.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.