I Think Of Myself As Writing For

The Future Is A Fog That Is Still Hanging Out Over The Sea, A Boat That Floats Home Or Does Not. The Trade Winds Blow Me, And I Do Not Know Where The Land Is; The Waves Fold Over Each Other; They Are In Love With Themselves; Sleeping In Their Own Skin; And I Float Over Them And I Do Not Know About Tomorrow.

Depression Is Boring, I Think And I Would Do Better To Make Some Soup And Light Up The Cave.

I Leave You, Home, When I'm Ripped From The Doorstep By Commerce Or Fate. Then I Submit To The Awful Subway Of The World.

There Is Hope. There Is Hope Everywhere. Today God Give Milk And I Have The Pail.

Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets, Just Exuberance.