My Life Is Slowed Up By Thought

America Hates The Artist. It Will Not Admit: The Artist Is My Soul And I Want To Kill Off My Soul.

To Write At The Same Temperature At Which I Live I Should Write Nothing But Poetry.

Stations And Airports Are Rehearsals For Separations By Death.

Out Of The Red And Silver And The Long Cry Of Alarm To The Poet Who Survives In All Human Beings, As The Child Survives In Him; To This Poet She Threw An Unexpected Ladder In The Middle Of The City And Ordained, 'climb!

The Earth Is Heavy And Opaque Without Dreams.