Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.

Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

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.

I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way.

The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading "Keep Off.

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.

So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.