Wit Can Be Beautiful, Because It Expresses

I Remember Nothing Of This, No Ambulance Rides, Nothing. Nothing Between Switching Out The Bedside Lamp And The Sudden Indignity Of Rebirth: The Slaps, The Brightness, The Tubing, The Speed, The Urgent Insistence That I Be Choked Back Into Breathing Life. I Have Felt So Sorry For Babies Ever Since.

Literature Is The Only Access To Truth We Have On This Planet.

I Believe That Poetry Is A Primal Impulse Within Us All.

The Email Of The Species Is Deadlier Than The Mail.

When Push-off Comes To Shove-off, A Man Must Have A Reason To Get Out Of Bed In The Mornings, Something More Than The Threat Of Bedsores, At Any Rate.