A Man Moves Through Time. It Means

We Humans Seem Disastrously In Love With This Thing (whatever It Is) That Glitters On The Earth-- We Call It Life.

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.

Desire Is No Light Thing.

Under The Seams Runs The Pain.

When I Began To Be Published, People Got The Idea That I Should 'teach Writing,' Which I Have No Idea How To Do And Don't Really Believe In.