A Poet Needs To Keep His Wilderness

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.

Certainly The Modern Poets I Cherish Most Are Disturbing Spirits; They Do Not Come To Coo.