love needs too much help, he said.hate takes care of itself.
as a childi supposei was not quitenormal.my happiest times werewheni was left alone inthe house on asaturday.
well, death says, as he walks by, I'm going to get you anyhow no matter what you've been: writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher, sky-diver, I'm going to get you
my poems are only bits of scratchingon the floor of acage.
Animals are inspirational. They don’t know how to lie. They are natural forces.
The total ugliness and indifference of the worst features of the human race come out in their driving habits.
good weatheris likegood women—it doesn’t always happenand when it doesit doesn’talways last.
Potential, " I said, "doesn't mean a thing. You've got to do it. Almost every baby in a crib has more potential than I have.
the gods seldomgivebut so quicklytake.
beware women grownoldwho were neveranything butyoung
for meobedience to another is the decay of self.for though every being is similareach being is differentand to herd our differencesunder one lawdegrades each self.
the courage it took to get out of bed eachmorningto face the same thingsover and overwasenormous.
that your power of commandwith simple language wasone of the magnificent things ofour century.(from the poem: result)
Finally there is nothing here for death to take away.
