I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way.
The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.
The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child.