The street to my left was backed up with traffic and I watched the people waiting patiently in the cars. There was almost always a man and a women, staring straight ahead, not talking. It was, finally, for everyone, a matter of waiting. You waited and you waited- for the hospital, the doctor, the plumber, the madhouse, the jail, papa death himself. First the signal red, then the signal was green. The citizens of the world ate food and watched t.v. and worried about their jobs or lack of the same, while they waited.

My flesh looked like it wasn't trying. It looked like it hated being part of me.

You can forgive a fool because he only runs in one direction and doesn't deceive anybody. It's the deceivers who make you feel bad.

i was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead.

Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.

the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever

so it's always a process of letting go, one way or another