Wherever we go we do harm, forgiving ourselves as wheels do cement for wearing each other out. We set this house on fire, forgetting that we live within. (from "To a Meadowlark," for M.L. Smoker)

When we were children we were errant enough to wish to be birds for the day but there's nothing easier to lose than playfulness.

How wonderful it was to love something without the compromise of language.

I seek the substantial in life.

Fate has never ladled out hardship very evenly, and this frequently trips our often infantile sense of justice.

Life is sentimental. Why should I be cold and hard about it? That's the main content. The biggest thing in people's lives is their loves and dreams and visions, you know.

Birthdays are ghost bounty hunters that track you down to ask, "Que pasa, baby?