Who am I? Flying, I live, and sometimes I make songs:
flower songs, butterflies of songs—such as reveal my sentiments, such as express my heart.

There are real facts in my poems, but facts mixed up in the perverse stubborn stew of imagination, add a pinch or two of revenge and retribution, a dash of amplification and reparation.

I don’t have to know what a song means. I’ve written all kind of things in my songs, and I’m not goin worry about it — what it all means.

you, keeper of a thousand
not-pregnant surprise parties
instigator of the exhale

Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.

I love you, rotten,
delicious rottenness..

The best way out is always through.

For the moon never beams,
without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?”

Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

You are clear
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.

“There’s a hell of a good universe next door, lets go.”

In a poem, we can briefly speak about a life well-lived, or a love sadly lost, one can speak about betrayal or trust in just a few lines.

Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul...

Poetry is priceless.... a way of keeping yourself feeling rich and civilized even when you're quite poor.

For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.

You’re dragging the mystery behind you. You’re shedding sparks. The faster you drive, the more sparks you shed.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it.

The greenhouse is my symbol for the whole of life, a womb, a heaven on earth.

And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.