The Poem Comes In The Form Of

I Want To Write Poems That Are Natural, Luminous, Deep, Spare. I Dream Of An Art So Transparent That You Can Look Through And See The World.

...few Young Poets [are] Testing Their Poems Against The Ear. They're Writing For The Page, And The Page, Let Me Tell You, Is A Cold Bed.

Forward My Mail To Mars.

Live In The Layers, Not On The Litter.

Poetry Is Ultimately Mythology, The Telling Of Stories Of The Soul. The Old Myths, The Old Gods, The Old Heroes Have Never Died. They Are Only Sleeping At The Bottom Of Our Minds, Waiting For Our Call. We Have Need Of Them, For In Their Sum They Epitomize The Wisdom And Experience Of The Race.