I carry a gun cause a cop is too heavy.

Hate cannot live alone. It must have love as a trigger, a goad, or a stimulant.

Some men ease themselves like setting hens into the nest of death.

I remember as a child reading or hearing the words 'The Great Divide' and being stunned by the glorious sound, a proper sound for the granite backbone of a continent. I saw in my mind escarpments rising into the clouds, a kind of natural Great Wall of China.

The clouds appeared and went away, and in a while they did not try anymore.

How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise - the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream - be set down alive?

We only have one story. All novels, all poetry are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil.