Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
There are ten men in me and I do not know or understand one of them.
A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.