I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

The body is a damn hard thing to kill.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.

Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.