Maybe I could have been good as a drawer if I had done it as much as I did writing, but it's more scary to draw. It's more revealing. You can't disguise yourself in drawing.

The man has a theory. The woman has hipbones. Here comes Death.

The Greek language seems different than other languages. I'm not the only person to think this. Usually, I come up with some kind of dopey metaphor for why it's different. But it seems, somehow, more original, more like being in the morning of language.

All human desire is poised on an axis of paradox, absence and presence its poles, love and hate its motive energies.

Meanwhile music pounded / across hearts opening every valve to the desperate drama of being / a self in a song.

Consider incompleteness as a verb.

There are different gradations of personhood in different poems. Some of them seem far away from me and some up close, and the up-close ones generally don't say what I want them to say. And that's true of the persona in the poem who's lamenting this as a fact of a certain stage of life. But it's also true of me as me.