The highest levels of consciousness are wordless.

There are people who live inside their heads and their intellects. It's something one is born with and stuck with. It's not something you make a decision about.

Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.

The highest levels of consciousness are wordless.

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.

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

The secret wish of poetry is to stop time.