You can not hear what you do not understand.
I've tried to become someone else for a while, only to discover that he, too, was me.
And the words we find are always insufficient, like love, though they are often lovely and all we have.
I’ve had it with all stingy-hearted sons of bitches. A heart is to be spent.
What feeling feels like over time. An attempt to screw up what feeling feels like over time. Heartbreak and a high C. . . . The often welcome melodic lie. . . . The soul's undersong. The orchestration of randomness, a flirtation with the boundaries of silence and space. . . . a reminder that the self wants to disappear, be taken away from itself and returned.
I wrote poetry for seven or eight years, maybe longer, before I could say I was a poet. If people asked, I'd say I wrote poetry; I wouldn't go further. I was in my mid- to late-thirties before I felt that I was a poet, which I think meant that I had begun to embody my poems in some way. I wasn't just a writer of them. Hard to say what, as a poet, my place in the world is. Some place probably between recognition and neglect.
There are always the simple events of your life that you might try to convert into legend.
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You gotta love and learn and learn to live.
In coming to understand anything we are rejecting the facts as they are for us in favour of the facts as they are.
The mind's capacity is limitless, and its manifestations are inexhaustible. Seeing forms with your eyes, hearing sounds with your ears, smelling odors with your nose, tasting flavors with your tongue, every movement or state is all your mind.