Poetry expands the senses and keeps them in prime condition. It keeps you aware of your nose, your eye, your ear, your tongue, your hand.

We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.

We have too many cellphones. We've got too many internets. We have got to get rid of those machines. We have too many machines now.

We are anthill men upon an anthill world.

Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage.

Not to write, for many of us, is to die. We must take ares each and every day, perhaps knowing that the battle cannot be entirely won, but fight we must, if only a gentle bout. The smallest effort to win means, at the end of each day, a sort of victory.

Here at this far lost end of the continent, where the trail wagons had stopped and the people with them.