I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes, so live not in your yesterdays, no just for tomorrow, but in the here and now. Keep moving and forget the post mortems; and remember, no one can get the jump on the future.

Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.

We read Robert Browning's poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.

Come on, you Do you want to live forever?

Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.