It took the whole of Creation to produce my foot, my each feather: now I hold Creation in my foot.

And as if reporting some felony to the police they let you know you were not John Donne.

Nobody wanted your dance, Nobody wanted your strange glitter, your floundering Drowning life and your effort to save yourself, Treading water, dancing the dark turmoil, Looking for something to give.

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

The Bush administration doesn't particularly like public participation. It makes them look bad.

The progress of any writer is marked by those moments when he manages to outwit his own inner police system.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death