To me Art (poetry) is a continuous and continuing process and that when a man fails to write good poetry he fails to live fully or well.

alone with everybody the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and them men drink too much and nobody finds the one but they keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills.

If I have any advice to anybody it's this: take up watercolor painting.

Banion wondered which was worse - being sodomized by aliens, or having to sit through two hours of Charles Ives.

I can't blame her. but wonder why she's here with me? where are the other guys? how can you be lucky? having someone the others have abandoned?

the free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.

The pest, in a sense, is a very superior being to us: he knows where to find us and how--usually in the bath or in sexual intercourse or asleep.