Enough Small Empty Boxes Thrown

I Have Written Some Poetry That I Don't Understand Myself.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets The Grease But The Quacking Duck Gets Shot.

I Am Still Studying Verbs And The Mystery Of How They Connect Nouns. I Am More Suspicious Of Adjectives Than At Any Other Time In All My Born Days.

The Drum In A Dream Pounds Loud To The Dreamer.

I Couldn't See Myself Filling Some Definite Niche In What Is Called A Career. This Was All Misty.