Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.

Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

One listens to a piece of great music, say, and feels deeply moved by it, and wants to put this feeling into words, but it can't be put into words. That's what - the music has already supplied the meaning, and words will just be superfluous after that. But it's that kind of verbal meaning that can't be verbalized that I try to get at in poetry.