Like seasonless fowl we migrate… from East Coast to West Coast and back and forth again, for a job, for a friend, for a change, for a kick.
Bedtime is daytime, and we come into bloom after midnight.
…love grown dutiful is love grown old a withered cupid faltering at the bow…
Euphemisms chosen by fear are a covenant with hypocrisy and will immediately destroy the poem and eventually destroy the poet.
Whatever is language is poetic language and if the word required by the poet does not exist in his known language then it is up to him to discover it.
There are no barriers to poetry or prophecy; by their nature they are barrier-breakers, bursts of perceptions, lines into infinity. If the poet lies about his vision he lies about himself and in himself; this produces a true barrier.
