POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.

The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.

A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.

The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.

And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?

I make it clear why I write as I do and why other poets write as they do. After hundreds of experiments I decided to go my own way in style and see what would happen.