Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease but the quacking duck gets shot.

Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.

I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way.

There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.

Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.

Beware of advice-even this.