Given my own circumstances, I find that anything can turn out to belong nearly anywhere.

I rarely think of poetry as something I make happen; it is more accurate to say that it happens to me. Like a summer storm, a house afire, or the coincidence of both on the same day.

Life proceeds, it enrages. The untouched ones spend their luck without a thought, believing they deserve it.

Don't wait for the muse. She has a lousy work ethic. Writers just write.

Loose lips sink ships.

A flower is your cousin...Sometimes a person has got to take a life, like a chicken's or a hog's when you need it...But nobody is so hungry they need to kill a flower. Cherokee great-grandmother

You know what the issue is? Do you want to know? It's what these guys have decided to call America. They have the audacity to say, 'There, you sons of bitches, don't lay a finger on it. That is a finished product.'" "But any country is still in the making. Always. That's just history, people have to see that.