I Have Started To Say "a Quarter

When I Get Sent Manuscripts From Aspiring Poets, I Do One Of Two Things: If There Is No Stamped Self-addressed Envelope, I Throw It Into The Bin.-if There Is, I Write And Tell Them To F**k Off.

Spring, Of All Seasons Most Gratuitous, Is Fold Of Untaught Flower, Is Race Of Water, Is Earth's Most Multiple, Excited Daughter; And Those She Has Least Use For See Her Best, Their Paths Grown Craven And Circuitous, Their Visions Mountain-clear, Their Needs Immodest.

Home Is So Sad. It Stays As It Was Left, / Shaped To The Comfort Of The Last To Go / As If To Win Them Back

No One Can Tear Your Thread Out Of Himself. No One Can Tie You Down Or Set You Free.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.