you are on the freeway threading through traffic now, moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful and so disappointing because we are all so alike and so different.

I knew exactly what I was doing: I was doing nothing. because I knew there was nothing to do.

‎"she’ mad but she’ magic. there’ no lie in her fire.

It's just that the grape has me down.

Writing is like going to bed with a beautiful woman and afterwards she gets up, goes to her purse and gives me a handful of money.

You don't go on "probably" when love and guns are in hand.

I'm only interested in poetry.