I wish I hadn't ever thrown those old poems away. Geez, I don't even remember now when that was. I do know that it's probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. And I'll probably still kick my own butt over it from time to time. It was an entire notebook of poems I had, representing two creative writing classes, complete with instructor comments written in the margins. He'd said he liked the way my mind works. Well I did keep one of them I had turned in for the class (I couldn't bear to part with that one since it was the first really good one, I thought) And I still think First of Thirteen is in a class all by itself. The day he read it for everyone, he asked for comments and when none came he said that it took him a couple of times reading it before he caught on that it was about "writing" itself. Then he looked at me and said "that is the message here isn't it?" I nodded, said "yeah" when the truth was I didn't know myself, what it was about. I'd worked on it for days, I think I rewrote it by hand at least fifty times. It was during my "Warhol" phase. At the time the images were the most important thing. Images and the flow. I had to get the images right, I mean Warhol was all about images so I had to do it justice. (without the luxury of a camera, that is.) And I just realized something here. 1) I'm rambling again and 2) lacking a means for images seems to have been a recurring theme.