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

Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.

How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl?

Not being perfect hurts.

Is it the sea you hear in me? Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

We know a thing by its opposite corollary; hot by having experienced cold; good by having decided what is bad; love by hate.