I Cut You Out Because I Couldn't

Dying Is An Art, Like Everything Else. I Do It Exceptionally Well.

Outcast On A Cold Star, Unable To Feel Anything But An Awful Helpless Numbness. I Look Down Into The Warm, Earthy World. Into A Nest Of Lovers' Beds, Baby Cribs, Meal Tables, All The Solid Commerce Of Life In This Earth, And Feel Apart, Enclosed In A Wall Of Glass.

For Me, Poetry Is An Evasion Of The Real Job Of Writing Prose.

The Hardest Thing, I Think, Is To Live Richly In The Present, Without Letting It Be Tainted & Spoiled Out Of Fear For The Future Or Regret For A Badly-managed Past.

There Is No Life Higher Than The Grasstops