the poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople... you and i are human beings; mostpeople are snobs.

love is a deeper season than reason; my sweet one

who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you

(and from my thighs which shrug and pant a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she carries in a gesture of her hips)

You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.

So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.

Like the burlesque comedian, I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement.