Carried by light, images remain while sensation is so evanescent as to be always beyond belief.

The ghosts swarm. They speak as one person. Each has left something undone.

Poetry wants to make things mean more than they mean, says someone, as if we knew how much things meant, and in what unit of measure.

Metaphor is ritual sacrifice. It kills the look-alike. No, metaphor is homeopathy.

But here I hold your dream in my poem.

Curled up in bed, I’m young in the old way.

We are all full of discourses that we only half understand and half mean.

The crowd is made of little gods, and there is still no heaven.

The fear that all this will end. The fear that it won't.

We sleep together in the dark but confuse light with love.

clarity need not be equivalent to / readability. How readable is the world?

All humans are sentient and sapient beings so they have the ability to perceive, think, and act using their knowledge, experience, insight, and conscience.

You see, freedom has a way of destroying things.

I do not wish to live in a society where you are stoned for adultery. I prefer to live in a society where we get stoned first, and then commit adultery.

Not everyone who drinks is a poet. Some of us drink because we're not poets.

Ah, me, if this is love, then how it torments.

All of [the] activities here have a surreptitious end-of-the-world feel to them:... these joggers sleepwalking in the mist like shadow's who have escaped from Plato's cave

The part I remember best is the beginning.

The prophets preach . . . that pleasure, not will-power and coercion, is how you most deeply transform people.

The professional is acutely aware of the intangibles that go into inspiration. Out of respect for them, she lets them work. She grants them their sphere while she concentrates on hers.