The plain truth is we are going to die. Here I am, a teeny spec surrounded by boundless space and time, arguing with the whole of creation, shaking my fist, sputtering, growing even eloquent at times, and then-poof! I am gone. Swept off once and for all. I think that is very, very funny.

There are people who live inside their heads and their intellects. It's something one is born with and stuck with. It's not something you make a decision about.

A poem is an invitation to a voyage. As in life, we travel to see fresh sights.

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

The plain truth is we are going to die. Here I am, a teeny spec surrounded by boundless space and time, arguing with the whole of creation, shaking my fist, sputtering, growing even eloquent at times, and then-poof! I am gone. Swept off once and for all. I think that is very, very funny.

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all others were making ships.