Tell your secrets. [In reply to the question "How does one become a prophet?"]

I didn't know the names of the flowers - now my garden is gone.

No monster vibration, no snake universe hallucinations. Many tiny jeweled violet flowers along the path of a living brook that looked like Blake's illustration for a canal in grassy Eden: huge Pacific watery shore, Orlovsky dancing naked like Shiva long-haired before giant green waves, titanic cliffs that Wordsworth mentioned in his own Sublime, great yellow sun veiled with mist hanging over the planet's oceanic horizon. No harm.

Now I have enough money to travel wherever I want, but I haven't got the health.

It's never to late to do nothing at all.

Inside skull vast as outside skull

A poem is like a radio that can broadcast continuously for thousands of years.