Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.