I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.

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?

I'll die propped up in bed trying to do a poem about America.

Revolt and terror pay a price. Order and law have a cost.

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.

Enough small empty boxes thrown into a big empty box fill it full.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease but the quacking duck gets shot.