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.

Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg. And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years,and passengers ask the conductor- What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

The greatest cunning is to have none at all.

The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.

In these times you have to be an optimist to open your eyes when you awake in the morning.

To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.