Poetry and Poetics   Uncollected   Because I never did die, sepia and self with others was jocund smashed in equal pieces. I write obscure, blissful fog and without sun the sky, floured with wearinesses the monotonies of living by jolts acute and low. 11 March 1995     Note 1967-1968   1/1/67 Intent upon describing the landscape I intruded; gushed from it restless the primary scene: spinning tops, caverns, demystifying scenes. It’s a scene this one that keeps me from thinking while with a machine gun I elegantly mow you all down. What a corvée of madmen! What…