There’s No Preparation For Poetry.

Words Make Love On The Page Like Flies In The Summer Heat And The Poet Is Only The Bemused Spectator.

Here Is Something We Can All Count On. Sooner Or Later Our Tribe Always Comes To Ask Us To Agree To Murder.

A Poem Is An Invitation To A Voyage. As In Life, We Travel To See Fresh Sights.

I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The Way Absent-minded People Leave Gloves And Umbrellas Whose Colors Are Sad From Dispensing So Much Bad Luck

He Who Cannot Howl Will Not Find His Pack.