Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
You remember some bedrooms you have slept in. There are bedrooms you like to remember and others you would like to forget.
I took to wearing a black tie known as the Ascot, with long drooping ends. I had seen pictures of painters, sculptors, poets, wearing this style of tie.
And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
I make it clear why I write as I do and why other poets write as they do. After hundreds of experiments I decided to go my own way in style and see what would happen.
People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.
Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
I have written some poetry that I don't understand myself.
Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
There are men and women so lonely they believe God, too, is lonely.
Read the dictionary from A to Izzard today. Get a vocabulary. Brush up on your diction. See whether wisdom is just a lot of language.
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