Maybe when I get in the grave, things will be beautiful.
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.
Never trust a man in a jumpsuit.
The public takes from a writer, or a writing, what it needs and lets the remainder go. but what they take is usually what they need least and what they let go is what they need most.
Even the stove and the refrigerator looked human, I mean good human – they seemed to have arms and voices and they said, hang around, kid, it’s good here, it can be very good here.
Love is a Dog from Hell.
Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit.
I held her wrists and then I got it through the eyes: hatred, centuries deep and true. I was wrong and graceless and sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted. there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems were false.
I would certainly end up forever crying the blues into a coffee cup in a park for old men playing chess or silly games of some sort.
I have seen too many men wilt and go silly under a little light, and then they continue to write and get published, turning out pure crap under a name that has become a bad habit. The next poem is all that counts. You can’t stand on past poems.
Joan of Arc had style. Jesus had style.
Death is not the problem; waiting around for it is.
I grow tired of 18th century moralities in a 20th century space-atomic age.
Each man’s hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.
Never get out of bed before noon.
We are here to laugh at the odds.
It’s hot tonight and half the neighborhood is drunk. the other half is dead. if I have any advice about writing poetry it’s – don’t. I’m going to send out for some fried chicken.
I was fairly poor but most of my money went for wine and classical music. I loved to mix the two together.
In a capitalistic society the losers slaved for the winners and you have to have more losers than winners.
Most of the world was mad. And the part that wasn’t mad was angry. And the part that wasn’t mad or angry was just stupid. I had no chance. I had no choice. Just hang on and wait for the end. It was hard work. It was the hardest work imaginable.