Art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds it hostage.

Our personalities seem dangerously to blur and overlap with our mother's; and, in a desperate attempt to know where mother ends and daughter begins, we perform radical surgery.

The mind's passion is all for singling out. Obscurity has another tale to tell.

The serious revolutionary, like the serious artist, can't afford to lead a sentimental or self-deceiving life.

They can rule the world while they can persuade us our pain belongs in some order is death by famine worse than death by suicide, than a life of famine and suicide...?

We who were loved will never unlive that crippling fever.

What I discerned in the U.S. was a convergence of poetic voices coming from many different rents in the social fabric, many cultures, many tributaries, which, together, make up the American poetry of the late twentieth century.