These Men Are Worth Your Tears. You

A Poem Does Not Grow By Jerks. As Trees In Spring Produce A New Ring Of Tissue, So Does Every Poet Put Forth A Fresh Outlay Of Stuff At The Same Season.

I Was A Boy When I First Realized That The Fullest Life Liveable Was A Poet's

The Universal Pervasion Of Ugliness, Hideous Landscapes, Vile Noises, Foul Language...everything. Unnatural, Broken, Blasted; The Distortion Of The Dead, Whose Unburiable Bodies Sit Outside The Dug Outs All Day, All Night, The Most Execrable Sights On Earth. In Poetry We Call Them The Most Glorious.

All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn.

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.