With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row, and your magazine-husband who one day just had to go. And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show - who among them do you think would employ you? Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole, with your holy medallion which your fingertips fold. And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul - oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?

At certain times I read a lot of poetry. My favorite poets are Shelley and Keats. Rimbaud is so identifiable. Lord Byron. I don't know. Lately if I read poems, it's like I can always hear the guitar. Even with Shakespeare's sonnets I can hear a melody because it's all broken up into timed phrases so I hear it. I always keep thinking, 'What kind of song would this be?'

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