nevertheless, as the chalky cliffs loomed nearer, him, she though felt culpable; dishonoured; unchaste, of and feather the struck over eat!

It seems to me that it’s in the poetry of language, what we call the prose style, and also finding the poetry of an individual character in his or her personality that brings on this sense of uniqueness.

A good chair a firm bed and you
Who said men aren’t domestic lied
My blues won’t make you blue
Never regret the world left outside

Let the juices of watermelons sparkle, be candles
Near the shore. Yesterday’s rind is today’s
Twenty-four year old nostalgia. Listen–
Save the black seeds, and please laugh at your face.
The sea comes into my left ear on a visit, turns pink
Then goes away. I drop the seashell, return gingerly

In his Saturday woodcraft classes,
During the war, to tall John Bina
We were equally poets, who taught us
To make ducks, guns, or dowels from wood.

Any day’s writing may be the last,
He’s reminded at 2 in the morning,
Making this year’s last Italian
Notes, before readying his machine
And self to get aboard the bigger
Machine and fly, Dio Volente, home.

The dove-white gulls
on the wet lawn in Washington Square
in the early morning fog
each a little ghost in the gloaming

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail

The only part of bodybuilding I’ve ever done is with my hand and my pen.