. . . car il n’est point vrai que l’oeuvre de l’homme est finie que nous n’avons rien à faire au monde que nous parasitons le monde qu’il suffit que nous nous mettions au pas...

I’d spent way more years worrying about how to look like a poet — buying black clothes, smearing on scarlet lipstick, languidly draping myself over thrift-store furniture — than I had learning how to assemble...

Safety isn’t always safe. You can find one on every gun.

But far more numerous was the herd of such,Who think too little, and who talk too much.

That loss is common would not makeMy own less bitter, rather more:Too common! Never morning woreTo evening, but some heart did break.

The Coming of LightEven this late it happens:the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up...

The greatness of poetry comes from its struggle to express the rapture of the soul in the contemplation of beauty.

I love being able to see an un-written future.

L’aube exalteé ainsi qu’un peuple de colombes, et j’ai vu quelquefois ce que l’homme a cru voir!(And dawn, exalted like a host of doves – and then I’ve seen what men believe they’ve seen!)

Chainschains that hold me to the groundchains that keep me solidly boundchains that tether my heart to youchains that hold only one truth…

Long have I dwelt forgotten hereIn pining woe and dull despair;This place of solitude and gloomMust be my dungeon and my tomb.

The best tourist is one without a camera

What’s not there is.

So come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing,and put your lips to the world.And live your life.

Etchings endure, But not in SandMeanings Collide To Unresolved FragmentsCodes fizzle to StaticThey are not lostBut UnheardNever lostFading slowly to SilenceBy infinite degrees

Nobody the dead man & Nobody the livingNobody is giving in & Nobody is givingNobody hears me but just Nobody caresNobody fears me but Nobody just staresNobody belongs to me & Nobody remainsNo Nobody knows...

Your skin reminds me of everything beautiful I’ve ever loved…how the moon gets jealous at how you mock her crescent figure with the shape of your mouth…echo of unborn galaxies bounce forth through your vocal...

There are some griefs so loudThey could bring down the sky,And there are griefs so stillNone knows how deep they lie,Endured, never expended.There are old griefs so proudThey never speak a word;They never can be...

The music is a vibration in the brain rather than the ear.

You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.

In another land there is gloryIn another land there is happinessIn another land we all get alongIn another land we will stand with others

Little,It is a small measureBut can you measure love?

STUFF POETS STILL LIKE: POETRY

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness -And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool. We are strong. We are the good ones. Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds. Hold...

Poets find their voices when they articulate the wishes of the dead, especially those slain as sacrificial talismans to a larger frame of existence.

it does seemthe more we drinkthe better the wordsgo.

Henceforth an individual solace dear; Part of my Soul I seek thee, and thee claim My other half: with that thy gentle hand Seisd mine, I yielded, and from that time see How beauty is...

the best part waspulling down theshadesstuffing the doorbellwith ragsputting the phonein therefrigeratorand going to bedfor 3 or 4days. and the next bestpartwasnobody evermissedme.

Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

I versi partono da una testa e arrivano ad un’altra su una traiettoria invisibile e producono la vita impalpabile delle emozioni: graffi sull’anima prodotti da sogni lucidi che lanciano una solida gomena fra quello che...

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde, te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera, sino así de este modo en que no...

Cuando perseguir días me entristece, No pienso en mí mismo;Yo viviré lo que deba.Es porque el tiempo pueda cambiarteQue temo los ocasos y me siento perdido.

The monsters were neverunder my bed.Because the monsterswere inside my head.I fear no monsters,for no monsters I see.Because all this timethe monster has been me.

Poetry makes life what lights and music do the stage.

See it was like this when we waltz into this place.A couple of papish cats is doing an Aztec two-stepAnd I says Dad let’s cutbut then this dame comes up behind me see and says...

Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to seeMen not afraid of God afraid of me.

SPRING POEMIt is spring, my decision, the earthferments like rising breador refuse, we are burninglast year’s weeds, the smokeflares from the road, the clumped stalksglow like sluggish phoenixes / it wasn’tonly my fault / birdsongs...

My love, can’t you seehow much i love theeFor i through your eyesshall seeOur great lovefor all eternity

And me, standing under the splintered night, catching fractured glimpses into the black behind the black, hearing the prayers of stars, the angry whispers of the dark summer night.Its voice cracks,on your name.My eyes close,on...

All this timeI drank you like the cure when maybeyou were the poison.

Touch Me, but not with your hands.

…feel the fierce way desiretourniquets itself around you andclingsClubland South of Market tweak-chic trannies powder their noses frombullet-shaped compacts and flick their forkedtongues like switchblades as they burn the nightdown bleed day to night to...

I Was Trained to See Shadows”, in his poetry book SALTY AS A LIP:] A nice bit of smooth, full-bodied, surreal story telling. I like it.

I imagined I was God for a millisecond And became speechless for a long time.

Ocean waves gently rock the boat,As if to the tune of a lullaby.She sits still as the boat silently floatsUnder the infinite blue sky.

You ask how it is possible to be your own father and son. You should seek answers, although it is better to anticipate some, to be the light and dream.

Here’s my address,write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.So I’ll tell a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the moment before we...

We will go far away, to nowhere, to conquer, to fertilize until we become tired. Then we will stop and there will be our home.

Imagine a sunset, lavender and red / as battered morals . . .