My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.

The Chromatic Scale Is What You Use To Give The Effect Of Drinking A Quinine Martini And Having An Enema Simultaneously.

I Didn't Choose Poetry: Poetry Chose Me.

I Listen To Money Singing, It's Like Looking Down From Long French Windows At A Provincial Town. The Slums, The Canal, The Churches Ornate And Mad In The Evening Sun. It Is Intensely Sad.

Sex Means Nothing--just The Moment Of Ecstasy, That Flares And Dies In Minutes.