I Like Poems You Can Tack All

The Soul Is Not A Soul, Has No Secret, Is Small, And It Fits Its Hollow Perfectly: Its Room, Our Moment Of Attention.

Much That Is Beautiful Must Be Discarded So That We May Resemble A Taller Impression Of Ourselves.

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Silly Girls Your Heads Full Of Boys

How Funny Your Name Would Be If You Could Follow It Back To Where The First Person Thought Of Saying It, Naming Himself That, Or Maybe Some Other Persons Thought Of It And Named That Person. It Would Be Like Following A River To Its Source, Which Would Be Impossible. Rivers Have No Source.