Memory. My Poison, My Food.

If The Past Has Nothing To Say To The Present, History May Go On Sleeping Undisturbed In The Closet Where The System Keeps Its Old Disguises.

We Are All Mortal Until The First Kiss And The Second Glass Of Wine.

Indignation Must Always Be The Answer To Indignity. Reality Is Not Destiny.

The Poet, Distracted By Politics, Asks Of Poetry That It Make Itself Useful Like Metal Or Flour, That It Get Ready To Stain Its Face With Coal Dust And Fight Body To Body.

When A Book Is Alive, Really Alive, You Feel It. You Put It To Your Ear Here, And You Feel It Breathe, Sometimes Laugh, Sometimes Cry, Just Like A Person, A Little Person.