I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead; men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas.

Trouble and pain were what kept a man alive. Or trying to avoid trouble and pain. It was a full time job.

That's the way it ends. The thin edge of the wedge.

I grow tired of 18th century moralities in a 20th century space-atomic age

I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell.

places to hunt places to hide are getting harder to find, and pet canaries and goldfish too, did you notice that?

Christmas poem to a man in jail hello Bill Abbott: I appreciate your passing around my books in jail there, my poems and stories. if I can lighten the load for some of those guys with my books, fine. but literature, you know, is difficult for the average man to assimilate (and for the unaverage man too); I don't like most poetry, for example, so I write mine the way I like to read it.