A revolutionary poem will not tell you who or when to kill, what and when to burn, or even how to theorize. It reminds you... where and when and how you are living and might live, it is a wick of desire.

I believe that words can help us move or keep us paralysed, and that our choices of language and verbal tone have something - a great deal - to do with how we live our lives and whom we end up speaking with and hearing; and that we can deflect words by trivialization, of course, but also by ritualized respect, or we can let them enter our souls and mix with the juices of our minds.

When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.

If I cling to circumstances I could feel not responsible. Only she who says she did not choose, is the loser in the end.

Most women have not even been able to touch this anger, except to drive it inward like a rusted nail.

What kind of beast would turn its life into words?

I choose to love this time for once with all my intelligence -from "Splittings