When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.

But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.

Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.