Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you.

O my enormous piano, you are not like being outdoors

oh god it’s wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.

the only truth is face to face, the poem whose words become your mouth and dying in black and white we fight for what we love, not are

Grace / to be born and live as variously as possible

And always embrace things, people earth sky stars, as I do, freely and with the appropriate sense of space.

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas! / You really are beautiful! Pearls, / harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins!

I don't think I want to win anything I think I want to die unadorned.

And don't worry about your lineage poetic or natural.

I don’t want content. I want slight fear. Anxiety. I want a longing devotion for a twist of absence. The feeling of complete isn’t quite pleasing.

It's tempting to ask why if you fed your neighbors during the time of the earthquake and fire, you didn't do so before or after.

The less you talk, the more you're listened to.

Is any man free except the one who can pass his life as he pleases?

The shallow end of hope is usually the deep end of grace.

Evolving into a middle-aged person is quite interesting if we can understand what it means. I would like to think it meant being a bit sure of what I want.

Where there is the necessary technical skill to move mountains, there is no need for the faith that moves mountains.

The poem is in my hands, and can run stories through her hands.

I learned that the interior of life was as rewarding as the exterior of life, and that my richest moments occurred when I was absolutely still.