My Own Writing

My Own Writing

My own writing is like me, or someone, making room on a page to move around in as to dance befor a mirror or sing befor a mirror or talk to oneselfto Keep on & be tickiled by each little improvisation or cry of fleeting memorySwell to be sadly crying for a wileas is my want. bend my headthe price for being a lone wolffon the tuch- up my ass with ear-to hear what swells within each ribI'm an artist, I can slice my heart up & put it into my brain skull pot & press the jet light of my eyefor gassier reasons than some 2 thousand year old god did back then-he he- me me-

April 1961 Paris