A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.

Always the path of American destiny has been into the unknown. Always there arose enough reserves of strength, balances of sanity, portions of wisdom to carry the nation through to a fresh start with ever-renewing vitality.

What if they gave a war and nobody came?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.

Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.

All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.