I’m with you in Rockland, where we are great writers on this same dreadful typewriter.
America will be refused eternity by her own mad son the bomb!
Which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns? This is my rocket my personal rocket I send up my message Beyond Someone to hear me there.
You are a pot of gold, don’t think I don’ realize it.
The poetry is like a rhythmic articulation of feeling.” – Allen Ginsberg.
If you must suffer, suffer nobly. Love, laugh through your tears, or cry, create and perhaps, perish.
The world knows the love that’s in its breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not our dread...
I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
I’ll finish this poem in my next life.
Give, share, loose – lest we die, unbloomed.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing among them The privilege to witness my existence – you too must seek the sun.
Say what you will, he proves to us, in spite of the most debasing experiences that life can offer a man, the spirit of love survives to ennoble our lives if we have the wit and the courage and the faith – and the art! to persist.
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out – clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts – begotten sons – your Communism – “Paranoia” into hospitals.
Everyman’s an angel!
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?
I write poetry because the English word Inspiration comes from Latin Spiritus, breath, I want to breathe freely.
All green. Abandon everything else.
It’s all a dream.