I went home each night dizzy and sick. He was murdering me with the sound of his voice.

I should think that many of our poets, the honest ones, will confess to having no manifesto. It is a painful confession but the art of poetry carries its own powers without having to break them down into critical listings. I do not mean that poetry should be raffish and irresponsible clown tossing off words into the void. But the very feeling of a good poem carries its own reason for being... 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.

I am a poem. There is no way out.

how can you be true and kind at the same time? how?

The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.

it's good to have things done with when they don't work it's also good not to hate or even forget the person you've failed with.

It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.