Bad taste creates many more millionaires than good taste.

I can't think of any poet-recluses outside of one dead Jeffers. [Robinson Jeffers] The rest of them want to slobber over each other and hug each other. It appears to me that I am the last of the poet-recluses.

Some people have written that my writing has helped them go on. It has helped me too. The writing, the roses, the 9 cats.

I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

Why did I come here? I thought. Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?

The human heart, as of course we all know is essentially good

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus!