Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph

You too must seek the sun.

Subject is known by what she sees.

Let go of the spirit of the departed, and continue the celebration of your own life.

The soul is innocent and immortal, it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse.

Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.

That's what the shaman said. He didn't know what he was up against. He didn't expect the strength and weight and evil intensity of this spirit, this "entity," as he called it. The same way the priest in an exorcism has to take on the spirit.