Like seasonless fowl we migrate…from East Coast to West Coastand back and forth again,for a job,for a friend,for a change,for a kick.

…love is by definition freeand if he choose to gowhen I would have him stayperhaps I’ll die a bitbut I’d rather sothan taste his absent minded kissand lie uneasy in a masked embrace

Whatever is language is poetic language and if the word required by the poet does not exist in his known language then it is up to him to discover it.

Poetry is alive because it is a medium of vision and experience. It is not necessarily comfortable.It is not necessarily safe.

There are no barriers to poetry or prophecy; by their nature they are barrier-breakers, bursts of perceptions, lines into infinity. If the poet lies about his vision he lies about himself and in himself; this...

Euphemisms chosen by fear are a covenant with hypocrisy and will immediately destroy the poem and eventually destroy the poet.

Bedtime is daytime, and we come into bloom after midnight.

…love grown dutiful is love grown olda withered cupid faltering at the bow…