Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.

Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.

An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "Come and find me, come and find me."

What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.

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

Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.

The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.