I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
Poetry to me is prayer.
God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.