Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.