Poetry At Its Best Is The Language

I Did Not Want To Live Out My Life In The Strenuous Effort To Hold A Ghost World Together. It Was Plain As The Stars That Time Herself Moved In Grand Tidal Sweeps Rather Than The Tick-tocks We Suffocate Within, And That I Must Reshape Myself To Fully Inhabit The Earth Rather Than Dawdle In The Sump Of My Foibles.

Poetry At Its Best Is The Language Your Soul Would Speak If You Could Teach Your Soul To Speak.

Short Things Are Short All Over And Long Things Are Long All Over.

A Poet Must Discover That It’s His Own Story That Is True, Even If The Truth Is Small Indeed.

We Are All Naturally Xenophobic.