When I do a play, it's like agreeing to be ill for a couple of months.
If love wants you; if you've been melted down to stars, you will love with lungs and gills; with feathers and scales; with warm blood and cold.
When a man dies, his secrets bond like crystals, like frost on a window. His last breath obscures the glass.
Now we're like planets, holding to each other from a great distance. [. . . ] Now we're hundreds of miles apart, our short arms keep us lonely, no one hears what's in my head. [. . . ] It's March, even the birds don't know what to do with themselves.
I wanted a line in a poem to be the hollow ney of the dervish orchestra whose plaintive wail is a call to God. But all I achieved was awkward shrieking. Not even the pure shriek of a reed in the rain.
I see that I must give what I most need.
Trees for example, carry the memory of rainfal. In their rings we read ancient weather - storms, sunlight and temperatures, the growing seasons of centuries. A forest shares a history which each tree remembers even after it has been felled.
It is an art form to hate New York City properly. So far I have always been a featherweight debunker of New York; it takes too much energy and endurance to record the infinite number of ways the city offends me.
Because it's one thing when you - oh, I love this tune. But then when you go to sing it, it's got to have something really personal. Then down to 25, and then to pick the final ones I just picked the ones that were more personal, that had something to do with my life.
keep a clean nose, watch the plain-clothes.
It's good to see a kid that young learning how to pitch. He's tough.