The Soul Inside Me Is The Last

Tonight I Think Again Of Many Days That Are Sacrificed For One Night Of Love. Of The Waste And The Fruit Of The Waste, Of Plenty And Of Fire. And How Painlessly-time.

Even If A Poet Writes About Sitting In A Glass House Drinking Tea, It Reflects Politics.

There Are Two Languages: One As Things Seem To Us And The Other Of Knowledge.

The Reason A Poet Is A Poet Is To Write Poems, Not To Advertise Himself As A Poet.

I’ve Never Been In Those Places Where I’ve Never Been And Never Will Be, I Have No Share In The Infinity Of Light-years And Dark-years, But The Darkness Is Mine, And The Light, And My Time Is My Own.