The great poet draws his creations only from out of his own reality.

The world we suggest is a new wild west. A sensuous evil world. Strange and haunting, the path of the sun.

Every poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world.

The more real you get, the more unreal the world gets.

Glance into the world just as though time were gone: and everything crooked will become straight to you.

I sit at my window gazing The world passes by, nods to me And is gone.