We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

Tell me what’s the difference between hope and waiting because my heart doesn’t know It constantly cuts itself on the glass of waiting It constantly gets lost in the fog of hope

This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?

Even a painful longing is some form of presence.

My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.

I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.

I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.

I returned to confirm there can be no return.

I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.

There are things better left untouched by words.

I think a lot of psychopaths are just geniuses who drove so fast that they lost control.

I'm not a morning person: I can't function until I've had a coffee - or several.

Christ rises above all things.

It is difficult to offend a New Yorker.

The body is the prop for the soul. So why not let the body be propped by a wall or a block?

The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten.

Banking was conceived in iniquity and born in sin.

She smiled with the warmth of a penguin.

There's no way I'm going to Jersey without my hair gel, can't leave without my gel.

The less Hillary Clinton speaks, the less she's seen, the higher her numbers go.