I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

Poetry to me is prayer.