The Weight Of The World

He Threw Up His Hands And Wrote The Universe Dont Exist And Died To Prove It

Taxi September Along Jessore Road Oxcart Skeletons Drag Charcoal Load Past Watery Fields Thru Rain Flood Ruts Dung Cakes On Treetrunks, Plastic-roof Huts Wet Processions Families Walk Stunted Boys Big Heads Don't Talk Look Bony Skulls & Silent Round Eyes Starving Black Angels In Human Disguise.

We're All Golden Sunflowers Inside.

The Only Thing That Can Save The World Is The Reclaiming Of The Awareness Of The World. That's What Poetry Does. By Poetry I Mean The Imagining Of What Has Been Lost And What Can Be Found - The Imagining Of Who We Are And The Slow Realization Of It.

I Really Would Like To Stop Working Forever–never Work Again, Never Do Anything Like The Kind Of Work I’m Doing Now–and Do Nothing But Write Poetry And Have Leisure To Spend The Day Outdoors And Go To Museums And See Friends. And I’d Like To Keep Living With Someone — Maybe Even A Man — And Explore Relationships That Way. And Cultivate My Perceptions, Cultivate The Visionary Thing In Me. Just A Literary And Quiet City-hermit Existence.