Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.

... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.

The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?

I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.

I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.

Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.

Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.