in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

The combination of drugs, homosexuality, some good prose recited on screen. . . . In the sweat lodge ceremony we went through, did you get any glimpse of the Ugly Spirit, what that was historically or biographically?

Last Exit to Brooklyn should explode like a rusty hellish bombshell over America and still be eagerly read in a hundred years.

Sometime I’ll lay down my wrath, As I lay my body down Between the ache of breath and breath, Golden slumber in the bone.

To gain your own voice you have to forget about having it heard.

The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstacy is holy!

Subject is known by what she sees.