How beautiful it is and how easily it can be broken.

I’m a poet. And then I put the poetry in the drama. I put it in short stories, and I put it in the plays. Poetry’s poetry. It doesn’t have to be called a poem, you know.

It's hard enough for me to write what I want to write without me trying to write what you say they want me to write which I don't want to write.

We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it.

Is a lifetime long enough to hold the regret that I have for that fantastically aborted but crazily sweet love affair?

When things don’t change, their sameness becomes an accretion. That is why all society puts on flesh. Succumbs to the cubicles and begins to fill them.

The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.