We must find out what words are and how they function. They become images when written down, but images of words repeated in the mind and not of the image of the thing itself.

The beautiful disease and The government falls along the weed rooms flesh along the weed government.

I've listened to and know Allen Ginsberg music and met him a couple of times, but I don't have any strong statements to make.

O death where is thy sting? The man is never on time.

I know this one pusher walks around humming a tune and everybody he passes takes it up. He is so grey and spectral and anonymous they don't see him and think it is their own mind humming the tune.

And there are my cats, engaged in a ritual that goes back thousands of years, tranquilly licking themselves after the meal. Practical animals, they prefer to have others provide the food ... some of them do. There must have been a split between the cats who accepted domestication and those who did not.

Yes, for all of us in the Shakespeare Squadron, writing is just that: not an escape from reality, but an attempt to change reality.