I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant loosing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.

I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

The box is only temporary.

Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.

I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.