Live In The Layers, Not On The

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

A Poem Has Secrets That The Poet Knows Nothing Of.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

I Like An Ending That's Both A Door And A Window.

Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act Of Changing Into Meaning.