Let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid down with ought with because with every brain which thinks it thinks, nor dares to feel.

Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.

What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?

At least the Pilgrim Fathers used to shoot Indians: the Pilgrim Children merely punch time clocks.

Exists no miracle mightier than this: to feel.

Take the so-called standard of living. What do most people mean by "living"? They don’t mean living. They mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science, in its finite but unbounded wisdom, has succeeded in selling their wives.

It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.