There was a typewriter buried alive in that horse, the one I road to get out of the flood.

Everything is out there. That's why they call it everything.

I choose to politely ask myself to step aside if I am in my own way. If I do not get out of my way, I choose to call a friend who will have me removed.

If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose this poem is too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier and rethink yourself.

Knowing me is easy. You can still twist your hair and feel silly. Look up the word tacky and have a salad. But when we're together you pull bread apart with your fingers into bites sometimes so small I gotta remind you, Peach, it is okay to be hungry.

Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.

If I didn't have so much of this life all wrong I would have gotten it right by now.