I have discovered that most of
the beauties of travel are due to
the strange hours we keep to see them. . . .

Make voyages! Attempt them... there's nothing else.

We love to travel. We just load up the van and take off.

I will teach you my townspeoplehow to perform a funeralfor you have it over a troopof artists--unless one should scour the world--you have the ground sense necessary.

The poem, to me (until I go broke) is an attempt, an experiment, a failing experiment, toward assertion with broken means but an assertion, always, of a new and total culture, the lifting of an environment to expression. Thus it is social, the poem is a social instrument.

My surface is myself.
Under which
to witness, youth is
buried. Roots?
Everybody has roots.