The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The

Forward My Mail To Mars.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

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

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.