It is the nature of a man as he grows older, a small bridge intime, toprotest againstchange, particularlychangefor the better.

My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day.

A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike.

The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the town lets wither a time and die.

And their greed was for gold or God. They collected souls as they collected jewels.

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?

The human is the only guilty animal.