Poetry is an art practiced with the terribly plastic material of human language.
I'll die propped up in bed trying to do a poem about America.
I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.
The squeaky wheel gets the grease but the quacking duck gets shot.
After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars
Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.