Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still

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

I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.