I should think that many of our poets, the honest ones, will confess to having no manifesto. It is a painful confession but the art of poetry carries its own powers without having to break them down into critical listings. I do not mean that poetry should be raffish and irresponsible clown tossing off words into the void. But the very feeling of a good poem carries its own reason for being... Art is its own excuse, and it’s either Art or it’s something else. It’s either a poem or a piece of cheese.

I feel strangely normal.

New Year's Eve always terrifies me.

There is light somewhere.

places to hunt places to hide are getting harder to find, and pet canaries and goldfish too, did you notice that?

but isn't there always one good thing to look back on? think of how many cups of coffee we drank together.

It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.