Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

I left parts of myself everywhere, The way absent-minded people leave Gloves and umbrellas Whose colors are sad from dispensing so much bad luck

A poem is an invitation to a voyage. As in life, we travel to see fresh sights.

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

Found objects, chance creations, ready-mades (mass-produced items promoted into art objects, such as Duchamp's "Fountain"-urinal as sculpture) abolish the separation between art and life. The commonplace is miraculous if rightly seen.

In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.

Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all others were making ships.