you just read it silently then louder louder by the second until you run with the words with needled leaves or flying cottons drenched in blue orange red violet with gates suspended in air or photographs covered in mud salt water cake with balloons that burst to dust or screens that talk in dreams songs shouts curses you run, not walk; not stroll but run periods are hatedwhy put an end? a minute, merciless globe that says "and so I am." there should be no fixtures imagine yourself crying and laughing or sitting down by the side of the road or lying down nursing a throbbing head do you say, "this is it. I shall be," or "so I am. so I am?" what a pitiful exercise on living then! and reading and writing poetry, too (most times they come together -poetry and life) you gather images and run along with them not imitate them not memorize them not eat them not study them; get a piece, find another blow them to the wind if you may; there is no fixture no end