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

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.

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.

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

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

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.