The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

...imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.

Do as you like with me. I'm your parcel. I have only our address on me. Open me, or readdress me.

And as if reporting some felony to the police they let you know you were not John Donne.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death

You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.

The Bush administration doesn't particularly like public participation. It makes them look bad.