The Damage Of Teaching: The Constant Contact

Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.

Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And Death.

Love Is Not Love Until Love's Vulnerable.

The Mind Enters Itself, And God The Mind, And One Is One, Free In The Tearing Wind.

I Can't Go On Flying Apart Just For Those Who Want The Benefit Of A Few Verbal Kicks. My God, Do You Know What Poems Like That Cost? They're Not Written Vicariously: They Come Out Of Actual Suffering, Real Madness.