Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.

The trouble with emergencies is," she said, "that I always put on my finest underwear and then nothing happens.

A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.

I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.

The sky lay over the city like a map showing the strata of things and the big full moon toppled over in a furrow like the abandoned wheel of a gun carriage on a sunset field of battle and the shadows walked like cats and I looked into the white and ghostly interior of things and thought of you and I looked on their structural outsides and thought of you and was lonesome.

I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.