If You Love Somebody, Tell Them.

Poetry Is Fact Given Over To Imagery.

I Chose The Shadows; They Did Not Choose Me. I Stay Here Securely Not Just Because I Feel Plain, But Because Disappearance Is By Now The Easy Way. The Habit. The Worn Path That I Can Trod Knowingly And Be Assured Safe Passage Home.

No Map To Help Us Find The Tranquil Flat Lands, Clearings Calm, Fields Without Mean Fences. Rolling Down The Other Side Of Life Our Compass Is The Sureness Of Ourselves. Time May Make Us Rugged, Ragged Round The Edges, But Know And Understand That Love Is Still The Safest Place To Land.

A Poet Can't Afford To Be Aloof. The Tools Of His Trade Are The People He Bumps Up Against.

I Cannot Speculate On What Our Cluttered Mind Will Save- Sleepy Sundays, Or A Nosebleed After Love. I Know Only The Dying Heart Needs The Nourishment Of Memory To Live Beyond Too Many Winters.