...pleasure, of course, is a slippery word.... Our pleasures ultimately belong to us, not to the pleasure's source.

I knew that poets seemed to be miserable.

Vade Mecum I want the scissors to be sharp and the table perfectly level when you cut me out of my life and paste me in that book you always carry.

It is as if one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the Southern Hemisphere of the brain.

Form is any aspect of a poem that encourages it to stay whole and not drift off into chaos.

I see the progress typical in some of my poems as starting with something simple and moving into something more demanding. This is certainly the pattern of weird poetry.

There's a lot of unconscious activity that goes on I think in the composition of a poem.