We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented

I Think That In The Process Of Writing, All Kinds Of Unexpected Things Happen That Shift The Poet Away From His Plan And That These Accidents Are Really What We Mean When We Talk About Poetry.

This Whole Moment Is The Groin Of A Borborygmic Giant Who Even Now Is Rolling Over On Us In His Sleep.

What I Like About Music Is Its Ability To Be Convincing, To Carry An Argument Through Successfully To The Finish, Though The Terms Of The Argument Remain Unknown Quantities.

My Feeling Is That Most Political Poetry Is Preaching To The Choir, And That The People Who Are Going To Make The Political Changes In Our Lives Are Not The People Who Read Poetry, Unfortunately. Poetry Not Specifically Aimed At Political Revolution, Though, Is Beneficial In Moving People Toward That Kind Of Action, As Well As Other Kinds Of Action. A Good Poem Makes Me Want To Be Active On As Many Fronts As Possible.

The Evening Light Was Like Honey In The Trees When You Left Me And Walked To The End Of The Street Where The Sunset Abruptly Ended. The Wedding-cake Drawbridge Lowered Itself To The Fragile Forget-me-not Flower. You Climbed Aboard. Burnt Horizons Suddenly Paved With Golden Stones, Dreams I Had, Including Suicide, Puff Out The Hot-air Balloon Now. It Is Bursting, It Is About To Burst