Give Me Your Skin As Sheer As

I Brush My Hair, Waiting In The Pain Machine For My Bones To Get Hard, For The Soft, Soft Bones That Were Laid Apart And Were Screwed Together. They Will Knit. And The Other Corpse, The Fractured Heart, I Feed It Piecemeal, Little Chalice. I'm Good To It.

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.

I'll Vacuum Up My Stale Hair, I'll Pay All My Neighbors' Bad Debts, I'll Write A Poem Called Yellow And Put My Lips Down To Drink It Up.

I Am Teaching... This Year It's Kind Of Like Having A Love Affair With A Rhinoceros.

Poets Are Sitting In My Kitchen. Why Do These Poets Lie? Why Do Children Get Children And Did You Hear What It Said?