palms on an island inhabitated only by small painted people a dusky artist painted my cup of Java tropical realism a dutchman painted a tranquill, thorny desert
youthful idealists at the dark labyrinth gates; hopeful days indeed purple thorns blossom by the serene rail-road tracks: vagabond roses flaming cigarette softens my mental daggers
A few generous souls have called me "wise" as one might call water "fresh" before discovering it to be indeed "salt" I used to think I might someday become wise but now I suspect
one eye open to the world of actual people, beds and carpets, coffeehouses and cramped buses, the other hearing and speaking the language of rainbow light in "tones of home,"