... 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.

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

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

To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.

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.

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.

Reading is a pleasure, but to finish reading, to come to the blank space at the end, is also a pleasure.