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.

People just don't know how to write down a simple easy line. It's difficult for them; it's like trying to keep a hard-on while drowning - not many can do it.

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.

I was an Agnostic. Agnostics didn't have much to argue about.

And don't forget: time is meant to be wasted, love fails and death is useless.

Each person is only given so many evenings and each wasted evening is a gross violation against the natural course of your only life.

well, death says, as he walks by, I'm going to get you anyhow no matter what you've been: writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher, sky-diver, I'm going to get you