“….all my stuff from the past …..looks foul to me.
The poems belong nowhere. They are one night stands, filled (the best of them)
with their own emotions, but pointing nowhere, as meaningless as sex in
a Turkish bath.”
“Poems should echo and reecho against one another. They should create resonances.
They cannot live alone anymore than we can.”
p. 61 Jack Spicer, “The Collected Works of Jack Spicer.” Edited by Robin Blaser
Black Sparrow Press. Los Angeles CA 1975