He Who Cannot Howl Will Not Find

I'm Not A Stickler For Truth. To Me, Lying In Poetry Is Much More Fun. I'm Against Lying In Life, In Principle, In Any Other Activity Except Poetry.

I Do Believe That A Poem Needs To Remind The Reader Of His Or Her Own Humanity, Of What They Are, Of What They're Capable Of. Awaken Them, In A Sense, To The Fact That There's A World In Front Of Their Eyes, That They Have A Body, They're Going To Die, The Sky Is Beautiful, It's Fun To Be In A Grassy Field When The Sun Is Shining—those Kinds Of Things.

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence.

The Stone Is A Mirror Which Works Poorly. Nothing In It But Dimness. Your Dimness Or Its Dimness, Who's To Say? In The Hush Your Heart Sounds Like A Black Cricket.

The Plain Truth Is We Are Going To Die. Here I Am, A Teeny Spec Surrounded By Boundless Space And Time, Arguing With The Whole Of Creation, Shaking My Fist, Sputtering, Growing Even Eloquent At Times, And Then-poof! I Am Gone. Swept Off Once And For All. I Think That Is Very, Very Funny.