for my better readers:

the night will arrive when these words will not so fondly bestow themselves
upon the page for me–
of course, some claim that they never have
but for me there has been a substance, no, a mountainous luck!
a luck which arrived often at times of unholy
–so many Stygian happenings, and a mind jolted nearly insensible
by the acts and actions of the few and the

isolation has always been a splendid out against too much
but I was never alone: the Word eased some of the hell out of
and when things went well, the Word became a

besides mere publication and some good critical reviews
plus a late survival at doing what I wished to
if there is room for pride, then I am proud of the letters
I have received
from the people in the jails and madhouses who have fallen upon
my work
and tell me that they understand of what I
and that it has helped them

it has been said that “poetry is for the

when these words no longer fondly bestow themselves
upon me
I will still be damned thankful I wrote the
other kind.

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