Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.

Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they all made the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad.

there's no clarity. there was never meant to be clarity.

The trouble with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up.

Love is all right for those who can handle the psychic overload. It's like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss.

that your power of command with simple language was one of the magnificent things of our century. (from the poem: result)

Our disappointment sits between us.