one must verge on the unknown, write toward the truth hitherto unrecognizable of one’s own sincerity, including the avoidable beauty of doom, shame, and embarrassment, that very area of personal self-recognition,(detailed individual is universal remember) which formal conventions, internalized, keep us from discovering in ourselves and others

Subject is known by what she sees.

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism

America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.

Who can live with this Consciousness and not wake frightened at sunrise?

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