See me with all the terrors on my roads,
The crusted shipwrecks rotting in my seas,
And the untroubled oval of my face
That alters idly with he moonlike modes
And is unfathomably framed to please
And deck the angular bone with passing grace.
I should have worn a terror-mask, should be
A sight to frighten hope and faith away.
Half charnel field, half battle and rutting ground.
Instead I am a smiling summer sea
That sleeps while underneath from bound to bound
The sun- and star-shaped killers gorge and play."
"I have a tendency to be easily side-tracked when in libraries by books people leave out on tables, and works that are mis-shelved."
Tribute to an Early Indigo. "For years I only half-believed the stories of cloak-and-dagger stuff. Then the Republican Convention came to Dallas, and I saw with my own eyes how 'they' never let him out of their sight....For the duration of the convention, they parked across the street in black sedans with tinted windows."
"James Patterson’s writing machine churns out another piece of absolute dreck."
"...he compiled, too, two lost treatises, a Names of the Serpent and a Names of the Hours of the Night, along with the extant Book of Trees and a monograph call’d On the Names of the Wind..."
(Also: "If twentieth century poetry norteamericano is overwhelmingly mark’d by Ezra Pound’s rehashings of works of the classic Chinese anthologies, oughtn’t the twenty-first century be that of the 'turn to' Arabic?)
"...mankind and Mother Nature com[m]ingle in some sort of deeply uneasy symbiosis..."