They looked as if nothing had ever touched them--all well-mothered, protected, with a soft sheen of contentment. None of them had ever been in jail, or worked hard with their hands, or even gotten a traffic ticket. Skimmed-milk jollies, the whole bunch.

I would give anything for a female's hand on me tonight. they soften a man and then leave him listening to the rain.

as a child i suppose i was not quite normal. my happiest times were when i was left alone in the house on a saturday.

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.

Something that never happens anywhere at any time.

unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it

Any asshole can chase a skirt, art takes discipline.