Treat a man like dirt-he produces flowers.
you shall above all things be glad and young For if you're young,whatever life you wear it will become you;and if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become.
hopes dance best on bald men's hair
Your homecoming will be my homecoming
May my heart always be open to little birds, who are the secrets of living. Whatever they sing is better than to know. And if men should not hear them - then men are old.
May my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if its sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young
Be of love a little more careful than of anything.
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of
It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. 1
hate blows a bubble of despair into hugeness world system universe and bang -fear buries a tomorrow under woe and up comes yesterday most green and young
Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.
all nothing's only our hugest home;the most who die, the more we live
Time's a strange fellow; more he gives than takes (and he takes all
In just - Spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee
Seeker Of Truth seeker of truth follow no path all paths lead where truth is here
Love is the whole and more than all.
So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was and is and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality... If poetry is your goal, you've got to forget all about punishments and all about rewards and all about self-styled obligations and duties and responsibilities et
someones married their everyoneslaughed their cryings and did their dance(sleep wake hope and then) theysaid their nevers they slept their dream
Spring slattern of seasonsyou have soggy legsand a muddy petticoatdrowsyis your hair youreyes are sticky withdream and you have a sloppy body frombeing brought to bed of crocuseswhen you sing in your whisky voicethe grass rises on the head of the earthand all the trees are put on edgespringof the ex
i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my uncle Sol and started a worm farm)
You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
a salesman is an it that stinks to please but whether to please itself or someone else makes no more difference than if it sells hate condoms education snakeoil vac uumcleaners terror strawberries democ ra(caveat emptor)cy superfluous hair
It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.
Your poems are rather hard to understand, whereas your paintings are so easy. Easy? Of course - you paint flowers and girls and sunsets; things that everybody understands. I never met him. Who? Everybody. Did you ever hear of nonrepresentational painting? I am. Pardon me? I am a painter, and paintin
mymother hoped thati would die etceterabravely of course my father usedto become hoarse talking about how it wasa privilege and if only hecould
may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living
...losing through you what seemed myself, i find selves unimaginably mine; beyond sorrow's own joys and hopings very fears yours is the light by which my spirit's born: yours is the darkness of my soul's return... you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
(existing's tricky:but to live's a gift)
It takes three to make a child.
the other guineahen died of a broken heart and we came to New York. I used to sit at a table,drawing wings with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept remembering how your mind looked when it slept for several years,to wake up asking why. So then you turned into a photograph of somebody whoâ€™s tryi