Love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skillfully curled) all worlds

If 180 million people want to be undead, that’s their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.

Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward.

Treat a man like dirt-he produces flowers.

Meanwhile myself et cetera lay quietly in the deep mud et cetera (dreaming, et cetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your Etcetera.)

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

It takes three to make a child.