Burning The Small Dead Branches

You Run Into People Who Want To Write Poetry Who Don't Want To Read Anything In The Tradition. That's Like Wanting To Be A Builder But Not Finding Out What Different Kinds Of Wood You Use.

Grandfather Space. The Mind Is His Wife

Clouds Sink Down The Hills Coffee Is Hot Again. The Dog Turns And Turns About, Stops And Sleeps.

The Mercy Of The West Has Been Social Revolution; The Mercy Of The East Has Been Individual Insight Into The Basic Self/void.

Poetry A Riprap On The Slick Rock Of Metaphysics