Taxi September along Jessore Road Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load past watery fields thru rain flood ruts Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts Wet processions Families walk Stunted boys big heads don't talk Look bony skulls & silent round eyes Starving black angels in human disguise.

Things are symbols of themselves.

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.

So I had a choice between going to a jail or going to a bughouse like a nice young middle-class student. So I chose to go to a very polite mental hospital. When I left eight months later, they said, 'You were never psychotic. You were just an average neurotic.'

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. Jiggling your knees blankeyed in the rain, when it snows in your nose you catch cold in your brain.

The hero surviving his own murder, his own suicide, his own addiction, surviving his own disappearance from the scene