There Is No Hurry. Time Means Nothing

And The Color In My Eyes Has Gone Back Into The Sea.

Sometimes I Hate You," She Said.

The Role Of The Poet Is Almost Nothing...drearily Nothing. And When He Steps Outside Of His Boots And Tries To Get Tough As Our Dear Ezra [pound] Did, He Will Get His Pink Little Ass Slapped.

My Heart Is A Thousand Years Old. I Am Not Like Other People.

The Way To Create Art Is To Burn And Destroy Ordinary Concepts And To Substitute Them With New Truths That Run Down From The Top Of The Head And Out Of The Heart