“i am with the rootsof flowersentwined, entombedsending up my passionate blossomsas a flight of rocketsand argument;wine churls my throat,above mefeet walk upon my brain, monkies fall from the skyclutching photographs of the planets,but i seek only musicand the leisureof my pain”

“I lapsed into my pathetic cut-off period. Often with humans, both good and bad, my senses simply shut off, they get tired, I give up. I am polite. I nod. I pretend to understand because I don’t want anybody to be hurt. That is the one weakness that has lead me into the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often get my soul shredded into a kind of spiritual pasta.No matter. My brain shuts off. I listen. I respond. And they are too dumb to know that I am not there.”

“yes, Wagner and the storm intermix with the wine as nights like this run up my wrists and up into my head and back down into the gut”

“If I never see you again I will always carry youinsideoutsideon my fingertipsand at brain edgesand in centerscentersof what I am ofwhat remains.”

“I got up and walked back to my roominghouse. The moonlight was bright. My footsteps echoed in the empty street and it sounded as if somebody was following me, I looked around. I was mistaken. I was quite alone.”

“My objection to war was not that I had to kill somebody or be killed senselessly, that hardly mattered. What I objected to was to be denied the right to sit in a small room and starve and drink cheap wine and go crazy in my own way and at my own leisure.”

“I will always carry you, inside, outside, on my fingertips, and at brain edges.”