Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.
Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.
What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.