The ghosts of Rilke and Wordsworth--along with the 300+ MFA programs, which now seem to employ all Living Poets--have misled the American public egregiously into thinking that poets are morally pure and/or useless.

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.

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

I remember when I was writing my memoir and I was worried about what other people would think when they read it, and my mother, who can be this incredibly wise person, said that it really didn't matter because strangers who read it would never meet me anyway, and people I knew were aware of my secrets.