“The poet’s life is just so much crenellated waste, nights and days whipping swiftly or laboriously past the cinematic window. We’re hunched and weaving over the keys of our green our grey or pink blue manual typewriter maybe a darker stone cold thoritative selectric with its orgasmic expectant hum and us popping pills and laughing over what you or I just wrote, wondering if that line means insult or sex. Or both. Usually both.”

“All the details of my life were in exact order and yet I was tumbling in them-out of order like a tremendous wave had hit me and I was thrown off the ship and I awoke or dreaming, or dead I knew not-no I couldn't speak.”

“Listen, I have been educated.I have learned about WesternCivilization. Do you knowWhat the message of WesternCivilization is? I am alone.”

“Time passes. That's for sure.”

“Doesn’t just about everybody disappoint their parents? They say all they want is for us to be happy, but what they really want is for us to be their do-over. Their second chance at life.”

“Let me get this straight. You've just told me that I was bitten by a vampire, had sex with an angel, then I died, but I've risen again as a succubus. And you've wondering why I don't believe you?"(Jackie)”

“Damn, girl. You are a kinky fuck."I glanced down. The sheet was spattered with blood, my skin covered with dried red lines. Awkward. "Oh. I tripped and fell.""On his fangs? Over and over?”