A Throw Of The Dice Will Never

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

Poets Don't Finish Poems, They Abandon Them.

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.