So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

The greatest cunning is to have none at all.

There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere

Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.