The first Central Park Human Be-In took place at the end of March that year. I went up and took a look. It felt strained. People were standing around looking at each other and some of them were wearing little bells on their clothes. There was pot smoking.
In ancient Greece, "rosy fingered" Eos, the personification of dawn, had an insatiable desire for young men.
I dropped out of high school to be a poet, so I needed to try to teach myself, by reading and writing, how to write. My first big insight was that poetry is metaphor (is that a metaphor?), in metaphors broadest sensethe evocation of something by invoking something else. Life is a dream, or death as sleep, and even your shoulders are petty crimes or the hum-colored cabs. Do those last two count as a metaphors?