How can He be perfect? Everything He ever makes...dies.

I was never a pipe or bong man. That's California stuff. I was an Eastern roller.

To me, smoking pot meant sitting with a newspaper on my legs, rolling the seeds down, pulling the twigs out and finally producing a perfectly cylindrical, absolutely wonderful joint that you either locked at both ends or pinched off, or pinched at one end and left open at the other.

I don't have to tell you it goes without saying there are some things better left unsaid. I think that speaks for itself. The less said about it the better.

Looking back, I realize that my life has been a series of incidents where one person has said to another, "Get this asshole outta here!"

I recently bought a book of free verse. For twelve dollars.

I have a lot of things [in me] that are childlike and innocent and sweet.