I write for one and only one purpose, to overcome the invincible ignorance of the traduced heart. I wish to speak to and for those who have had enough of the Social Lie, the Economics of Mass Murder, the Sexual Hoax, and the Domestication of Conspicuous Consumption.

The meaning of life can be revealed but never explained.

I've had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.

As Aristotle said, you have to be an aristocrat or a reactionary to write a good proletarian poem.

Against the ruin of the world, there is only one defense: the creative act.

Maturity is having the ability to escape categorization.

A white crowned night sparrow sings as the moon sets. Thunder growls far off. Our campfire is a single light. Amongst a hundred peaks and waterfalls. The manifold voices of falling water Take all night. Wrapped in your down bag Starlight on you cheeks and eyelids Your breath comes and goes In a tiny cloud in the frosty night. Ten thousand birds sing in the sunrise. Ten thousand years revolve without change. All this will never be again.