Truth is a hard deer to hunt. If you eat too much truth at once, you might die of the truth.

As for what you're calling hard luck - well, we made New England out of it. That and codfish.

Money is sullen And wisdom is sly, But youth is the pollen That blows through the sky And does not ask why.

I died in my boots like a pioneer With the whole wide sky above me.

Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

Grant us brotherhood, not only for this day but for all our years - a brotherhood not of words but of acts and deeds.

When my own writing needs a perk, I open Zukofsky and read from "A" - particularly sections "22" and "23." It can be opaque, but I love the intensity.