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

I don't want to read what is going to slide down easily; there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.

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

I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.

Each servant stamps the reader with a look.

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

I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.