My Nature Is A Quagmire Of Unresolved

I Will Go To The Garden. I Will Be A Romantic. I Will Sell Myself In Hell, In Heaven Also I Will Be.

My Wife And I Lived All Alone, Contention Was Our Only Bone. I Fought With Her, She Fought With Me, And Things Went On Right Merrily. But Now I Live Here By Myself With Hardly A Damn Thing On The Shelf, And Pass My Days With Little Cheer Since I Have Parted From My Dear.

Oh Well, I Will Say Here, Knowing Each Man, Let You Find A Good Wife Too, And Love Her As Hard As You Can.

As I Get Older, I Recognize That My Thinking About Poetry May Or May Not Have Anything Actively To Do With My Actual Work As A Poet. This Strikes Me As No Thing Cynically Awry But Rather Seems Again Instance Of That Hapless Or Possibly Happy Fact, We Do Not As Humans Seem Necessarily Aware Of What We Are Physically Or Psychically Doing At All!

No Matter How Wild Reality Was Obviously Often Being, It Was An Absolutely Secure Place, As A Tone And Intelligence, And A Thing Happening.