It was like the first time i saw a cadaver. For weeks afterward the cadavers head, or what was left of it - floated up behind my eggs and bacon at breakfast and in the face of Buddy Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt as though I were carrying that cadavers head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.

Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

You smile. No, it is not fatal.

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.

I suppose I'll always be over-vulnerable, slightly paranoid.

I like people too much or not at all.