Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?

I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.