INTRODUCTION from New Poems Analysis

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The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople-- it's no use trying

to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with

ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs.

Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to mostpeople? Catastrophe

unmitigated. Socialrevolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyperexclusively

ultravoluptuous superpalazzo,and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming

with every conceivable species of undesirable organism. Mostpeople fancy a guaranteed

birthproof safetysuit of nondestructible selflessness. If mostpeople were to be born twice

they'd improbably call it dying--





you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human beings;for whom birth

is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of growing:which happens only and whenever we

are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it

becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now'and now is much to busy being a little more than

everything to seem anything,catastrophic included.





Life,for mostpeople,simply isn't. Take the socalled standardofliving. What do mostpeople

mean by "living"? They don't mean living. They mean the latest and closest

plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science,in its finite but

unbounded wisdom,has succeeded in selling their wives. If science could fail,a mountain's

a mammal. Mostpeople's wives could spot a genuine delusion of embryonic omnipotence

immediately and will accept no substitutes.





-luckily for us,a mountain is a mammal. The plusorminus movie to end moving,the strictly

scientific parlourgame of real unreality,the tyranny conceived in misconception and

dedicated to the proposition that every man is a woman and any woman is a king,hasn't a

wheel to stand on. What their synthetic not to mention transparent majesty, mrsandmr

collective foetus,would improbably call a ghost is walking. He isn't a undream of

anaesthetized impersons, or a cosmic comfortstation,or a transcedentally sterilized

lookiesoundiefeelietastiesmellie. He is a healthily complex,a naturally homogenous,citizen

of immorality. The now of his each pitying free imperfect gesture,his any birth of

breathing,insults perfected inframortally milleniums of slavishness. He is a little more

than everything,he is democracy;he is alive:he is ourselves.





Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who

can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near

him,when his fingers would not hold a brush "tie it to my hand"--





nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or

colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or

unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints

childrening,innocent spontaneaous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a

garden,but actually flowers which breasts are amoung the very mouths of light. Nothing

believed or doubted;brain over heart, surface:nowhere hating or to fear;shadow,mind

without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always

distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of

wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or

pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of

inexistence;never to rest and never to have;only to grow.





Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question