we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure.

too often, the only escape is sleep

Something that never happens anywhere at any time.

my youth, one time, that time I knew even through the nothingness, it was a celebration of something not to do but only know.

there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting

I seldom know what I'm going to write when I sit down. There isn't much agony and sweat of the human spirit involved in doing it. The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.

Joan of Arc had style. Jesus had style.