People, the people we really love, where did they come from? What did we do to deserve them?

Polar fleece is a plush, spongy, totally artificial material that weighs nothing and conveys no quality of warmth or coolness; in fact, you can wear it in the most bitter weather or in the hottest heat. Polar fleece looks neither flimsy and light nor hearty and warm. It has no historical, cultural, or physical association with a place, a season, a society, or any living thing. It is the first existential fabric - eminentaly useful, meaningless, dissociated and weird.

Although all poets aspire to be birds, no bird aspires to be a poet.

I hated childhood / I hate adulthood / And I love being alive.

Metaphor is not, and never has been, a mere literary term. It is an event.

If you have any idea for a poem, an exact grid of intent, you are on the wrong path, a dead-end alley, at the top of a cliff you haven't even climbed. This is a lesson that can only be learned by trial and error.

Art has always been aware of itself as art.