you know louis denair knows very well
that sometimes i like his stuff a whole
lot and sometimes not at all, but almost
always i have great respect for his
reviews, and here of course he nails
you like i did a year or so ago when i
recognized that you've created your own
language, and here louis refines that
model or recognition. but i think you've
always been wise beyond your years or
anyone's, tyth, and when i read you i
think it's taken me so long to learn so
little about writing, which is an automatic
thing with you. well i'm just gushing on.
this seems a transitional piece, a way of
beginning to cut loose from all yesterdays.
just keep on going, and remember me when
you get there. i don't think it'll be
any dim cave, though no doubt the primitive
will ring on like plucking taut veins.
ya know?

It's amazing that your poetry loses half the charm and fantasy when I try to take it in slowly, analyzing line by line. My dad once said that Bob Dylan doesn't make poetry, he composes music and the words are his notes(well, something of that kind) and I think this applies to your pieces even more severely. The words don't necessarily make one comprehensive and logical whole if you read them the conventional way, the robotic way. No, you need to take them all at once, in groups, together, like notes in music. What is a few notes? Nothing. It's the swaying, the undulating chords, up and down, up and down- the psychological rhythm that matters. And you play with my heart, your notes, when taken whole, are like drugs- they put me in a certain mood and I don't quite know how. Getting over the rock walls to freedom in cave- that does seem to be the moral of one too many not-so-fairy tale lives out there. Taking the leap towards liberty and realization, we burrow deeper and deeper. Sometimes you have to embrace the fact that you are a mole, embrace the moleness and in this be whole. Realize yourself as the blind, burrowing creature and make a Sistine Chapel _underground_ 'coz its clay ligaments would simply collapse outside.