At some point my need for a solution was replaced by the poetry of my continuous failure.

And of course, for all we know, I might be a hundred years old already, and she just a sleepy little girl with glasses.

Time – the lizard in the sunlight. It doesn’t move, but its eyes are wide open. They love to gaze into our faces and hearken to our discourse. It’s because the very first men were lizards. If you don’t believe me, go grab one by the tail and see it come right off.

If the photographers are soul-thieves, whose soul is being stolen in a photograph of the night sky? The soul of the last one to go to bed and the soul of the first one to rise in the morning, perhaps? Photography is a black art like alchemy. It turns matter into spirit and spirit into matter. Still, there are moments when looking at a photograph of a night sky we have a hunch what the word soul means, what the word infinity encompasses.

Everyone vain, dull, peevish, and sexually frustrated dreams of legislating his impotence. Mao’s uniforms: a billion people dressing the same and shouting from his little red book continues to be the secret hope of new visionaries.

Memory, all-night’s bedside tattoo artist.

Nationalism is a self-constructed cage in which family members can huddle in safety when they’re not growling and barking at someone outside the cage.

I remember,” someone said, “how in ancient times one could turn a wolf into a human and then lecture it to one’s heart’s content.

I’m not a stickler for truth. To me, lying in poetry is much more fun. I’m against lying in life, in principle, in any other activity except poetry.

Making art in America is about saving one’s soul.