Gray is a shade of grey, or vice-versa, I'm not sure which.

Poetry is a chihuahua serving temporarily as your judge in Hades.

A chihuahua is poetry.

Poetry is a chihuahua.

Poetry is limestone in the hands of a botanist.

Poetry is the landscape you can't put into words.

Poetry is the landscapes in the marginal metaphors of Dante's Inferno.

Poetry is what remains unexpressed.

Poetry is what the janitor finds after the reading is over.

Poetry is none of your business.

Poetry is something Poe tried.

Poetry is as I define it.

Poetry is to performance art as chess is to Chutes & Ladders.

The future was behind the past, sorta like a blog entry.

Jordan writes:

"Poetry in English maybe has a future, but that future will come from solitary hard labor," says Henry. I am guessing he means a hard labor that often appears to be abstracted lazy gazing out the train window.

Productive daydreaming is a different issue, probably the most worthwhile activity in the universe but not what I was talking about.

I don't say Talk is bad; I'm just playing up its difference from Poetry.

The hard labor I have in mind has to do with every good poet's unique understanding of precision.

Architecture is frozen music; poetry is silent music.

"Musicien du silence"

Crane in The Bridge called Dickinson, "Silencer".

The imagination approaches the Real as silence approaches music.

The silence before a poetry reading is only the prologue to poetic silence.

The Talker is a time-thief. Time-theft is white-collar crime, the talker gratified by light sentences & cushy cell. The Poet, sentenced to hard labor, is uneasy about doing time.

The permanent is musical. Poetry is silence.

History is a textbook titled Introduction to History from which I am trying to awake.

If nobody hears the sound of a forest and falls in it, does it make a tree ?

Nothing obvious will happen.

HG TREATISE # 12235b ON HALOS

"Poetry IS like unto a halo, in that
b. it encircleth back unto itself much like a riddle of the Sphinx or the destiny of Oedgar Alley (d'd) Puss;
d. thus its magnitude is bothy enrichethed by its consequent danger (like unto that which faceth and embodieth yon Narcissus
q. or other yon self-regarding tragique incestuousities;
a. all of the above;
#12 (center) and what quoth Socrates maketh Poetry to encircleth back unto itself? Why, he says to himself, it be the marriage of sound and sense, belike; that which pleaseth & entranceth in the very sound of the volubles; the mindlesse mutteringes of the streame's ongoingnessiveness, not That for whence it cometh or goeth, as t'would any a Reasonable intelligence. Therefore get thee hence O Babbler Brooke, outside, beyond yon Serial walles of Athens!"
O, Socky.