“I wish I were driving a blue 1952 Buickor a dark blue 1942 Buickor a blue 1932 Buickover a cliff of hell and into thesea.”

“There is a blue bird in my heart that wants to get out.”

“I would certainly end up forever crying the blues into a coffee cup in a park for old men playingchess or silly games of some sort.”

“Consummation Of GriefI even hear the mountainsthe way they laughup and down their blue sidesand down in the waterthe fish cryand the water is their tears.I listen to the wateron nights I drink awayand the sadness becomes so greatI hear it in my clockit becomes knobs upon my dresserit becomes paper on the floorit becomes a shoehorna laundry ticketit becomescigarette smokeclimbing a chapel of dark vines. . .it matters littlevery little love is not so bador very little lifewhat countsis waiting on wallsI was born for thisI was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.”

“Zircoff," I said, "put the tomatoes away." "Piss," he said, "I wish they were hand grenades.”

“I wish to weepbut sorrow isstupid.I wish to believebut belief is agraveyard.”

“I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I was on it.”