I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.
Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.
I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
I don't want to read what is going to slide down easily; there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.
Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision