Nothing Happens... But First A Dream.

Poetry Is A Mystic, Sensuous Mathematics Of Fire, Smoke-stacks, Waffles, Pansies, People, And Purple Sunsets.

I Doubt If You Can Have A Truly Wild Party Without Liquor.

The Peace Of Great Books Be For You, Stains Of Pressed Clover Leaves On Pages, Bleach Of The Light Of Years Held In Leather.

Poetry Is The Cipher Key To The Five Mystic Wishes Packed In A Hollow Silver Bullet Fed To A Flying Fish.

It Is Necessary ... For A Man To Go Away By Himself ... To Sit On A Rock ... And Ask, 'who Am I, Where Have I Been, And Where Am I Going?