When I am presented with good work, I accept it. Wherever it is.
Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter. . . Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
We are not supposed to be all equal. Let's just forget that. We are supposed to have equal rights under law. If we do that, we have done enough.
There's one thing I've always known: You can let people suspect anything else about you, but you must never let them suspect you of knowing what you're doing.
You are either green and growing, or ripe and rotting.
Poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue; it is hard for an empty bag to stand upright.