I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.