Ginsberg, Dylan, Cunningham and Cage

For Halloween, I want to be Lenny Bruce, I want them to hate me, so you can love me on the sly.

Lenny Bruce, declares a truce and plays his other hand. Marshall McLuhan, casual viewin', head buried in the sand.

I want to be Lenny Bruce.

A grain of poetry suffices to season a century.

Within your magic web of hair, lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world; The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair; The songs that turned to …

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality. It speaks of what seems fantastic an…