Best 6 quotes of Lucia Perillo on MyQuotes

I believe in the fatal hairdo just for the love of saying fatal hairdo.

My advice to aspiring poets is to find a community of other poets who are willing to read one another's work. And to read widely, in a variety of time periods and cultures, to identify which traits of poems are appealing and which aversive. And what can be stolen.

Sometimes a name seems our most arbitrary possession, and sometimes it seems like the grain in a rock like a sculptor's hunk of Italian marble: Whack it and you might get either your first glimpse of a saint or a pile of rubble.

Because who hasn't tried to pull their arms from the sleeves of gravity's lead coat? Who doesn't have at least one pair of wax wings out in the garage?

It is ferocious, life, but it must eat . . .

Of all the birds, they are the ones who mind their being armless most: witness how, when they walk, their heads jerk back and forth like rifle bolts. How they heave their shoulders into each stride as if they hoped that by some chance new bones there would come popping out with a boxing glove on the end of each. Little Elvises, the hairdo slicked with too much grease, they convene on my lawn to strategize for their class-action suit. Flight they would trade in a New York minute for a black muscle car and a fist on the shift at any stale green light. But here in my yard by the Jack-in-the-Box Dumpster they can only fossick in the grass for remnants of the world’s stale buns. And this despite all the crow poems that have been written because men like to see themselves as crows (the head-jerk performed in the rearview mirror, the dark brow commanding the rainy weather). So I think I know how they must feel: ripped off, shook down, taken to the cleaners. What they’d like to do now is smash a phone against a wall. But they can’t, so each one flies to a bare branch and screams.