We live in a capitalist system; anyone who believes they are above this system or purer than this system, even while shopping at the cute organic market across the street or taking a hiking vacation to Guatemala, is certifiable.

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

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?

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

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

What separates the professionally successful ... from all the rest is their ability to stay steady, to have stamina. It is one thing to write a good sentence, another to write a good book.

I think it is extremely interesting to think that, in some cases, vice might be, finally, more redemptive than virtue.