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 dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content.

We must.. We must bring our own light to the darkness

Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.

If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life.

yes, Wagner and the storm intermix with the wine as nights like this run up my wrists and up into my head and back down into the gut

You just rebel against everything. How are you going to survive? I don't know. I'm already tired.