Any Memory For The Most Part Depending

When I Get Sent Manuscripts From Aspiring Poets, I Do One Of Two Things: If There Is No Stamped Self-addressed Envelope, I Throw It Into The Bin.-if There Is, I Write And Tell Them To F**k Off.

Death Is No Different Whined At Than Withstood.

Only One Ship Is Seeking Us, A Black-sailed Unfamiliar, Towing At Her Backa Huge And Birdless Silence. In Her Wakeno Waters Breed Or Break.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

They Say Eyes Clear With Age.