What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

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

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

Poets are Damned... but See with the Eyes of Angels.

Everybody's serious but me.

America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing.

he threw up his hands and wrote the Universe dont exist and died to prove it