I do not play the instrument In longing but in quest Not to be undertaken Not to be lost In a forest of bliss.

The sum of the parts equals less than the whole. Or the howl. Or the how. Or the hole.

I do not play the instrument In longing but in quest Not to be undertaken Not to be lost In a forest of bliss.

There is, in the heart, the hard-rendering profit. As if we were plucking the leaves from the trees.

I do think most poets are in denial about what the real taboos in writing are--the real boundaries.

To think of the myriad ways that we live is to think of the ways that we die: Delinquent in our brains, in debt-- If we settle, then, our due account and walk through the forest, Will we finally be free?

When I moved to New York, the reputation just followed me, and I am regularly invited to play in home games, by writers in particular, though finance folk also invite me on occasion.