All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation.
I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.
Our claim to our own bodies and our world is our catastrophe.
A poet's hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.
I don't think the mystical experience can be verbalized. When the ego disappears, so does power over language.
Each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.