[To the editors of Coastlines] Late 1962 Biog.? I am insane and old and driveling, smoke like the forests of hell, but feel better all the time, that is—worse and better. And when I sit down to the typer it is like carving tits on a cow—a great big thing. Then too, I realize I gotta run in the Latin, and the poise, and the snob and the Pound and the Shake[speare], and hello hello hell—anything that makes the thing run, hurrah! But I am thin as a fake, so I often write a bad poem written mostly by myself rather than a good poem written mostly by somebody else. Though, of course, I cannot swear
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