Sleep is the gift of many spiders
The webs tie down the sleepers easy.

Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.

There are 10 men in me and I do not know or understand one of them.

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive in the universe.

A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.

The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.

To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.

The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.

Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.

Choose. The single clenched fist lifted and ready, or the open hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.

Who else speaks for the Family of Man?

They are in tune and step

with constellations of universal law.

Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

She knew there was a big Chicago
far off, where all the trains ran.

The fog comes on little cat feet.

Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

There is only one man in the world and his name is All Men. There is only one woman in the world and her name is All Women. There is only one child in the world and the child's name is All Children.

Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.