I Have No Useful Theories

He Wanted To Tell Her That He Was Inspired And Vigilant And Recklessly Alone, That His Body Contained His Unsteady Heart And Something Else, Something He Felt But Could Not Describe: Porous And Spiky, Shifting With Flecks Of Thought, With Urge And Memory; Salted With Brightness, Flickerings Of White And Green And Pale Gold; Something That Loved Stars Because It Was Made Of The Same Substance.

Accept That, Like Many Men, You Have A Streak Of The Homoerotic In You. Why Would You, Why Would Anyone, Want To Be That Straight?

A Writer Should Always Feel Like He's In Over His Head

On A Summer Night It Can Be Lovely To Sit Around Outside With Friends After Dinner And, Yes, Read Poetry To Each Other. Keats And Yeats Will Never Let You Down, But It's Differently Exciting To Read The Work Of Poets Who Are Still Walking Around Out There.

Love Is Deep, A Mystery - Who Wants To Understand Its Every Particular?