We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

O starry night, This is how I want to die

I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.

I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.

I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...

Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.

Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside