I am stuffing your mouth with yourpromises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

Purity is defined by the clearness of the stars

If I bet on humanity, I’d never cash a ticket.

Music is poetry in motion.

it is so dark now with the sadness ofpeoplethey were tricked, they were taught to expect theultimate when nothing ispromisednow young girls weep alone in small roomsold men angrily swing their canes atvisions asladies comb...

I see what I want of Love… I see horses making the meadow dance, fifty guitars sighing, and a swarm of bees suckling the wild berries, and I close my eyes until I see our...

the impossibility of being humanall too humanthis breathingin and outout and inthese punksthese cowardsthese championsthese mad dogs of glorymoving this little bit of light towardusimpossibly.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

. . .criticism is to poetry as air is to a noise: it allows it to be heard; and even if we can’t see it or feel it, it is there, shaping how we hear.

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of...

but in the cityin which I love you,no one comes, no onemeets me in the brick clefts;in the wedged dark,no finger touches me secretly, no mouthtastes my flawless salt,no one wakens the honey in the...

A language is a map of our failures

We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.

What did you think, that joy / was some slight thing?

A little learning is a dangerous thing.Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring;There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,and drinking largely sobers us again.

The River Mogami has drownedFar and deepBeneath its surging wavesThe flaming sun of summer

I speak of new cities and new peopleI tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,a sun dropped in the west.I tell you there is nothing...

Poetry, plays, novels, music, they are the cry of the human spirit trying to understand itself and make sense of our world.

Poetry seems especially like nothing else so much as itself. Poetry is not like, it is the very lining of the inner life.

No wires tender even as nervescan transmit the impact ofour seasons, our catastropheswhile we are closed inside them

Poems are lenses, mirrors, and X-ray machines.

I find my data first in myself, not first in the poets. For if I did not find it in myself, I would not be able to find it in the poets.

He knows he will be born again, And start fresh anew.

The poem is the point at which our strength gave out.

Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.

A man walks into a bar and says: Take my wife–please. So you do. You take her out into the rain and you fall in love with her and she leaves you and you’re desolate.You’re...

I recreate myself; that is my only power.

Touch my song with your lips, make it immortal,be my beloved, make my love immortal.No restriction of age, not the bond of lives,when someone love should see only the soul,by carving new trend, make the...

Vandals listen only when others are stronger.If vandals are equal or strongerTheir word is the last word.

I am five, I will never understandwhy we are stranded in our selvesbut in this moment I knowmy own storyis understanding our singlenessthat I am destined to move my body and timeinto the body-timethe storyof...

Amor, ch’al cor gentile ratto s’apprendeprese costui de la bella personache mi fu tolta; e ‘l modo ancor m’offende.Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona,Mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,Che, come vedi, ancor non...

If I lived a million lives, I would’ve felt a million feelings and I still would’ve fallen a million times for you.

To not say all that can be said is the secret of discipline and economy.

Life’s waters flow from darkness, Search the darkness, don’t run from it.

Without pleasure there is no sight or measure.

Shall I tell you our secret? We are charming thieves who steal hearts and never fail because we are the friends of the One.Blessed is the poem that comes through me but not of me...

Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?

I stumble and fall.I weep and struggle to rise.My mom feels it all.

Faith is a question of eyesight; even the blind can see that.

Theirs two ways to become a famous Poet, find that one person that knows somebody, that knows somebody, that knows somebody.Or die trying

Truth is hard-hearted and unrelenting, too clear, precise; a lie is much more imaginative.

I fought for you, I fought for usI fought for the memories and the laughter that came upon us,Now here we are, we have become unknown people to each other,Worlds apart in an instant, for...

Perfect bliss, from just the thought of you next to me.

If I am more alive because love burns and chars me,as a fire, given wood or wind, feels new elation,it’s that he who lays me low is my salvation,and invigorates the more, the more he...

Every poem I write falls short in some important way. But I go on trying to write the one that won’t.

He wanted to be a poet,’ someone else put in while Maggie hugged Tim and patted his back. ‘Said he’d only lacked the words to be one.

You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.

The extremity of her sensitivityimpressed a richly idle princely family,of her discomfort, bothered as she had to beby the absurd softness of the ample beddings,not to mention the pillow piles aggravatingher much lamented acrophobic dis-ease.[from...

Stranger, pause and look;From the dust of agesLift this little book,Turn the tattered pages,Read me, do not let me die!Search the fading letters findingSteadfast in the broken bindingAll that once was I!

My words are the garment of what I shall never be Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.