I think I may well be a Jew.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.

Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.