God serves the choosy. They know what to want.

Meanwhile let us cast one shadow in air and water.

I didn't write my poems because I wanted to, they were wrung from me. I had to write them.

We are, each of us, our own prisoner. We are locked up in our own story.

I'm going home the old way with a light hand on the reins making the long approach.

Here on the drawing board fingers and noses leak from the air brush maggots lie under if i should die before if i should die in the back room stacked up in smooth boxes like soapflakes or tunafish wait the undreamt of.

My writing time needs to surround itself with empty stretches, or at least unpeopled ones, for the writing takes place in an area of suspension as in a hanging nest that is almost entirely encapsulated.