Topologically, Men And Women Are Identical. Some

It Is Not That Love Sometimes Makes Mistakes, But That It Is, Essentially, A Mistake. We Fall In Love When Our Imagination Projects Nonexistent Perfections On To Another Person. One Day The Phantasmagoria Vanishes, And With It Love Dies.

Pain ... After You've Lived With It Long Enough, Isn't Pain Anymore. It's Something Else.

Like Contemporary Poetry, Philosophy Is One Of Those Things, Especially At The Beginning Stages, Most People Would Rather Do Than Study - Which Is Why Most Of What Gets Done Is So Impoverished.

You Know What I Do? I Listen To Other People, Stumbling About With Their Half Thoughts And Half Sentences And Their Clumsy Feelings That They Can't Express, And It Hurts Me. So I Go Home And Burnish It And Polish It And Weld It To A Rhythmic Frame, Make The Dull Colors Gleam, Mute The Garish Artificiality To Pastels, So It Doesn't Hurt Any More: That's My Poem. I Know What They Want To Say, And I Say It For Them.

There Is A Hollow, Holey Cylinder Running From Hilt To Point In My Machete. When I Blow Across The Mouthpiece In The Handle, I Make Music With My Blade. When All The Holes Are Covered, The Sound Is Sad, As Rough As Rough Can Be And Be Called Smooth. When All The Holes Are Open, The Sound Pipes About, Bringing To The Eye Flakes Of Sun On Water, Crushed Metal. There Are Twenty Holes. And Since I've Been Playing Music, I've Been Called All Different Kinds Of Fool - More Times Than Lobey, Which Is My Name.