Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.

What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.

And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?

The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.

In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.

Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.