Springwater grow so thick it gonna clot and the pleasing ladies cease. I figure, yup, you is bad powers.

Heartmating hesitating unafraid.

One must be ruthless with one’s own writing or someone else will be.

I can offer you only: this world like a knife.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn.

The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he’s in business.

I didn’t want to be like Yeats; I wanted to be Yeats.

Literature bores me, especially great literature.

Nouns, verbs do not exist for what I feel.

You should always be trying to write a poem you are unable to write, a poem you lack the technique, the language, the courage to achieve. Otherwise you’re merely imitating yourself, going nowhere, because that’s always easiest.