Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon

My characters are galley slaves.

There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

The square root of I is I.

in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one's position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo's natural members.

Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?