People throw shade, she said
Which is certainly, curtainly true
Write your masterpiece
But don't read the book reviews

The professors and the intellectuals
Often attack out of spite
They go after famous writers
Because they themselves cannot write

Trust the art, not the artist
The artist, of course, has sins
Her best self is in her work
She loses, but her work wind wins

I do like Universities
But just to walk around
Everybody knows
I am the newsboy of this town

My father's house is quiet
My brother soon will come
Here said I , with a sudden cry
Is my crematorium!

A little Germany this Christmas
A book about Berlin
John Scotus Eriugena
Scott y Ireland

             Yin Yang
             Yang Yin