You Don't Help People In Your Poems.

You Can Do Anything, Really. And That, L Think, Is One Of The Exciting Possibilities Of The Present, L Swear, Is The Possibility That The Goddamn Thing Can Be Modaled Throughout.

This Morning Of The Small Snow I Count The Blessings, The Leak In The Faucet Which Makes Of The Sink Time, The Drop Of The Water On Water.

A Poem Is Energy Transferred From Where The Poet Got It (he Will Have Some Several Causations), By Way Of The Poem Itself To, All The Way Over To, The Reader.

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.

O.k. I'm Running Out Of Appetite. Let This Swirl- A Bit Like Crab Nebula- Do For Now.