Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.

Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.

I decided I would go to Chicago and try my luck as a writer after those eight months as a fireman.

Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.

I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.

Nothing happens... but first a dream.

Gather the stars if you wish it so Gather the songs and keep them. Gather the faces of women. Gather for keeping years and years. And then... Loosen your hands, let go and say good-bye. Let the stars and songs go. Let the faces and years go. Loosen your hands and say good-bye.