Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
The shovel is the brother to the gun.
And those who say, "I'll try anything once," often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.
Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.