I am aware that a computer can’t create a poem, but neither can a typewriter.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.

my hands dead my heart dead silence adagio of rocks the world ablaze that's the best for me.

there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say "no.

When I get down to my last dime I'll just walk over to skid row." "There are some real weirdos down there." "They're everywhere.

Animals never worry about Heaven or Hell. Neither do I. Maybe that's why we get along.

The role of the poet is almost nothing...drearily nothing. And when he steps outside of his boots and tries to get tough as our dear Ezra [Pound] did, he will get his pink little ass slapped.