To Submit To Chance Is

There Are Knives That Glitter Like Altars In A Dark Church Where They Bring The Cripple And The Imbecile To Be Healed. There's A Woden Block Where Bones Are Broken, Scraped Clean--a River Dried To Its Bed

Here In The United States, We Speak With Reverence Of Authentic Experience. We Write Poems About Our Daddies Taking Us Fishing And Breaking Our Hearts By Making Us Throw The Little Fish Back Into The River. We Even Tell The Reader The Kind Of Car We Were Driving, The Year And The Model, To Give The Impression That It’s All True. It’s Because We Think Of Ourselves As Journalists Of A Kind. Like Them, We’ll Go Anywhere For A Story. Don’t Believe A Word Of It. As Any Poet Can Tell You, One Often Sees Better With Eyes Closed Than With Eyes Wide Open.

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence. The Words Never Quite Equal The Experience Behind Them.

Found Objects, Chance Creations, Ready-mades (mass-produced Items Promoted Into Art Objects, Such As Duchamp's "fountain"-urinal As Sculpture) Abolish The Separation Between Art And Life. The Commonplace Is Miraculous If Rightly Seen.

A 'truth' Detached And Purified Of Pleasures Of Ordinary Life Is Not Worth A Damn In My View. Every Grand Theory And Noble Sentiment Ought To Be First Tested In The Kitchen-and Then In Bed, Of Course.