Perhaps poetry will be the canary in the mine-shaft warning us of what's to come.

Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead?

Turn on the dream you lived through the unwavering gaze. It is as you thought: the living burn. In the floating days may you discover grace.

Thats the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.

The first step... shall be to lose the way.

Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.

There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version