When a writer is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.

I was so thin I could slice bread with my shoulderblades, only I seldom had bread.

in the cupboard sits my bottle like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers. I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony, sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere, the phone rings gamboling its sound against the odds of the crooked sea; I drink deeply and evenly now, I drink to paradise and death and the lie of love.

It’s hard to drink when you dance. And it’s hard to dance when you drink.

the psyche has been burned and left us senseless, the world has been darker than lights-out in a closet full of hungry bats, and the whiskey and wine entered our veins when blood was too weak to carry on

Art is its own excuse, and it's either Art or it's something else. It's either a poem or a piece of cheese.

Before you kill something make sure you have something better to replace it with.