If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.

Most people love you for who you pretend to be.

Getting drunk . . . you're in complete control up to a point. It's your choice, every time you take a sip. You have a lot of small choices. It's like . . . I guess it's the difference between suicide and slow capitulation . . .

The world becomes an apparently infinite, yet possibly finite, card game. Image combinations, permutations, comprise the world game.

There are no laws, there are no rules, just grab your friend and love him.

The Night is young & full of rest I can’t describe the way she’s dress’d She’ll pander to some strange requests Anything that you suggest Anything to please her guest.

Twentieth-century culture's disease is the inability to feel their reality. People cluster to TV, soap operas, movies, theater, pop idols and they have wild emotion over symbols. But in the reality of their own lives, they're emotionally dead.