Poetry Is What Happens When An Anxiety

Art—the Meaning Of The Pattern Of Our Common Actions In Reality. The Cloth-of-gold That Hides Behind The Sackcloth Of Reality, Forced Out By The Pain Of Human Memory.

It's Unthinkable Not To Love - You'd Have A Severe Nervous Breakdown. Or You'd Have To Be Philip Larkin.

What Are Stars But Points In The Body Of God Where We Insert The Healing Needles Of Our Terror And Longing?

I See Artists As A Great Battalion Moving Through Paint, Words, Music Towards Cosmological Interpretation.

Like All Young Men I Set Out To Be A Genius, But Mercifully Laughter Intervened.