Silence Is The Only Language

I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The Way Absent-minded People Leave Gloves And Umbrellas Whose Colors Are Sad From Dispensing So Much Bad Luck

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence. The Words Never Quite Equal The Experience Behind Them.

The Highest Levels Of Consciousness Are Wordless.

Words Make Love On The Page Like Flies In The Summer Heat And The Poet Is Only The Bemused Spectator.

A 'truth' Detached And Purified Of Pleasures Of Ordinary Life Is Not Worth A Damn In My View. Every Grand Theory And Noble Sentiment Ought To Be First Tested In The Kitchen-and Then In Bed, Of Course.