I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping.

Just because we have birds inside us, we don't have to be cages.

Go down any road far enough and you'll come to a slaughterhouse, but keep going and you'll reach the sea.

but nothing can be taken back, not the leaves by the trees, the rain by the clouds. You want to take back the ugly thing you said, but some shrapnel remains in the wound, some mud.

You are made of bent coat hangers, honey, gravel, epoxy and handstands. I am made of lying on the floor, the same song on repeat.

You want happy endings, read cookbooks.

Poets are excellent students of blizzards and salt and broken statuary, but they are always elsewhere for the test. Any intention in the writing of poetry besides the aim to make a poem, of engaging the materials, SHOULD be disappointed. If the poet does not have the chutzpah to jeopardize habituated assumptions and practices, what will be produced will be sleep without dream, a copy of a copy of a copy.