Here is a semi-transparent pebble I picked up on the way to my EKG. Probably worthless but it is my heart so take it.

Hark, dumbass, the error is not to fall but to fall from no height. Don't fall off a curb, fall off a cliff.

You want happy endings, read cookbooks.

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

You start with a darkness to move through but sometimes the darkness moves through you.

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.

Poetry is not efficient. If you want to learn how to cook a lobster, it’s probably best not to look to poetry. But if you want to see the word lobster in all its reactant oddity, its pied beauty, as if for the first time, go to poetry. And if you want to know what it’s like to be that lobster in the pot, that’s in poetry too.