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.

all that I know is that I believe in the sound of music and the running of a horse. all else is squabble.

...in that drunken place you would like to hand your heart to her and say touch it but then give it back.

They were beautiful nothings

my greatest problem was stamps, envelopes, paper and wine, with the world on the edge of World War II.

They laughed. Things were funny. They weren't afraid to care. There was no sense to life, to the structure of things.

I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again.