Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, ‘Oh!’ and another, ‘How?’
Poetry is statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.
Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.
Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
Money buys everything except love, personality, freedom, immortality, silence, peace.
In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
If the facts are against you, argue the law. If the law is against you, argue the facts. If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell.
Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
The squeaky wheel gets the grease but the quacking duck gets shot.
And those who say, “I’ll try anything once,” often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.
Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
Enough small empty boxes thrown into a big empty box fill it full.
A baby is God’s opinion that life should go on.