I Feel There Is An

Recipe For Happiness Khaborovsk Or Anyplace' One Grand Boulevard With Trees With One Grand Cafe In Sun With Strong Black Coffee In Very Small Cups. One Not Necessarily Very Beautiful Man Or Woman Who Loves You. One Fine Day.

Constantly Risking Absurdity And Death Whenever He Performs Above The Heads Of His Audience, The Poet, Like An Acrobat, Climbs On Rhyme To A High Wire Of His Own Making.

[in The True Mad North] Of Introspection, Where 'falcons Of The Inner Eye' Dive And Die, Glimpsing In Their Dying Fall, All Life's Memory Of Existence.

The World Is A Beautiful Place To Be Born Into If You Don't Mind Some People Dying All The Time Or Maybe Only Starving Some Of The Time Which Isn't Half So Bad If It Isn't You.

I Am Waiting For The Lost Music To Sound Again In A New Rebirth Of Wonder.