Pleasure, lust and desire are concomitants to love, joy and beauty. A little hedonism is always good to leaven the bread of consciousness. Far from there being any contradiction, such as religion would posit, they all buttress and play off one another in a well-rounded, fully alive life.

Pleasure. Lust. Desire . . .  Love. Joy. Beauty. Those and not the strictures of religion are the poet’s credo. He has fun mixing them up—and thus lives to the full. Therein lies the validity of his poetry and his claim to it.

Perversion, subversion, inversion: all versions of the truth that sets us free.

Non-artists make a fetish of material desire; artists make a fetish of non-material desire.

Poetry can be as difficult as it likes as long as its images are accessible. For its images carry its meaning, though the reader may have to search a bit before he finds the visceral brain those images speak to—not to mention the body of words that offers itself to him like a whore who knows the difference between nakedness and literature, yet in the interests of her profession insists there is none.

Perhaps there is only a craziness that redeems us, a challenge that meets us on the bridge to meaning.

How about this: to herald an age of joy only the drunken will recognize. I mean those already drunk on joy, on awe, wonder, amazement—and on beauty, on what they take for truth, faith, creativity. Drunk on their own honest selves, their visions, their commitment to life. These, I think, are the models of an age of joy, of the ecstatic sobriety equal to drunkenness.

The artist of the word evinces prose stylings that meld rhythm, image and meaning into a harmony that perhaps discomfits and provokes intellectual consternation, but produces an effect equal to a symphony that is only resolved by its antiphonies, its contrapuntal statements, its imbroglio of passions that untangle themselves by following each note, each word, to its unknown yet sublime, if chaotic, conclusion.