All life was now a miniseries, and the Florida sky, that great brocaded curtain, was about to be drawn over the closing night, where a thorny, ungrateful gator wallowed on the shared ledge of bank, home, or willing to call it home, the incoherent kingdom. Z. Its arc hesitated above the palms. Darker, but not so injured now. I began to write criticism because I needed the money, but I kept writing because I needed the discipline. Still, there are poets I admire whom I've never written about and poets I should have written much more about.
Poets die by their hands but live by their words.
What was an oral art is now almost always an artifact for the eye. People talk about poetry more than they talk poetry, and to a large extent reputations are still made and lost in table talk. And first the girls got the giggles, and then I did and then even the King. The poem was The Waste Land. Such a gloomy man, looked as though he worked in a bank, and we didn't understand a word.