We Are Each Other's Harvest; We Are

Live Not For Battles Won. Live Not For The-end-of-the-song. Live In The Along.

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

I Tell Poets That When A Line Just Floats Into Your Head, Don't Pay Attention 'cause It Probably Has Floated Into Somebody Else's Head.

I Think It Must Be Lonely To Be God. Nobody Loves A Master. No.

Good Health Is A Duty To Yourself, To Your Contemporaries, To Your Inheritors, To The Progress Of The World.