The little elf is dressed in a floppy cap and he has a big rosy nose and flaring white eyebrows with short legs and a jaunty step, though sometimes he glides across an invisible pond with a bonfire glow on his cheeks: it is northern Europe in the nineteenth century and people are strolling around Copenhagen in the late afternoon, mostly townspeople on their way somewhere, perhaps to an early collation of smoked fish, rye bread, and cheese, washed down with a dark beer: ha ha, I have eaten this excellent meal and now I will smoke a little bit and sit back and stare down at the golden gleam of my watch fob against the coarse dark wool of my vest, and I will smile with a hideous contentment, because I am an evil man, and tonight I will do something evil in this city!
Ron Padgett - 1942-
It's funny when the mind thinks about the psyche, as if a grasshopper could ponder a helicopter. It's a bad idea to fall asleep while flying a helicopter: when you wake up, the helicopter is gone and you are too, left behind in a dream, and there is no way to catch up, for catching up doesn't figure in the scheme of things. You are who you are, right now, and the mind is so scared it closes its eyes and then forgets it has eyes and the grasshopper, the one that thinks you're a helicopter, leaps onto your back! He is a brave little grasshopper and he never sleeps for the poem he writes is the act of always being awake, better than anything you could ever write or do. Then he springs away.