... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

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

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

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.