I am not obsessing.I am just sitting hereperforating this post-itwith a push-pin.

Be there a picnic for the devil,an orgy for the satyr,and a wedding for the bride.

I live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future.

Only in books the flat and final happens, Only in dreams we meet and interlock....

it isn't that we're alone or not alonewhose voice do you want mine? yours?

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.

you can take this mouththis wound you wantbut you can't kissand make itbetter.

There have been times I've felt so much art in my soul I grew sick of artists.

A poem needs imaginative rhythms as well as imaginative transformation of content.

For you may palm upon us new for old:All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll,In pleasing memory of all he stole.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

That tingle in the brain is called a word.It bats itself against its fleshy bounds.

You shall create beauty not to excite the sensesbut to give sustenance to the soul.