 Hello, I'm just going to read four very short poems, and the first one I know by heart, that's why I'm reading it, partly. Do you know, do you know that silence that rice is louder than a scream, that silence which hurts itself against the walls of indifference, that silence that's had its tongue cut out, but never ever stopped screaming. So the other thing, you don't have to feel obliged, you can save it for later, because they're short and sweet. So I actually wanted to read a poem I wrote to Lawrence, which is called Blue Eyes, but I never typed it out, it was longhand and I just couldn't find it, but I will write one at the end for him. This is a poem called About a Woman who lived in San Francisco, who had actually a great impact on me years ago. Her real name was Barbara, but she was also referred to as Queen Transila. Wrapped in rags on the sidewalk in North Beach, sleeping through the elements, piercing blue eyes in a weather-burned face with a voice like a resonance from a barrel of finest silk. It's you I've been to listen to, those sparks released like wild birds, so simply complex and so dazzling in their flight from your palette. Whichever way you turn your story, from whatever throne you've climbed, we are on your knees at your twinkle of command as you advise young girls how to spell Nietzsche. Homeless dancer with all the trappings of light and wind spinning a universe from his paving stone of sheer genius. And then I'm going to, I have two poems. This first one is by me, and the one that corresponds to it is by Lawrence and it's all about happiness. Mine is called Anthology of Happiness. As strange as it sounds, I'm happy about not being happy. I mean, there is so much love in the world, shrouded in violence, the war, the rain, the rain, the war, and then there is the sun, you, with your big warm palm on my back, rising out of all the cracks in our room, the body and soul I fall in and out of when I'm happy about not being happy. And Lawrence's poem, recipe for happiness in Khabarovsk were any place. One grand boulevard with trees, with one grand cafe and sun, with strong black coffee in very small cups. One not necessarily very beautiful. Man or woman who loves you. I didn't read that very well, can I do it again? One not necessarily very beautiful. Man or woman who loves you, one fine day.