We live in a capitalist system; anyone who believes they are above this system or purer than this system, even while shopping at the cute organic market across the street or taking a hiking vacation to Guatemala, is certifiable.

There is, in the heart, the hard-rendering profit. As if we were plucking the leaves from the trees.

I do not play the instrument In longing but in quest Not to be undertaken Not to be lost In a forest of bliss.

The ghosts of Rilke and Wordsworth--along with the 300+ MFA programs, which now seem to employ all Living Poets--have misled the American public egregiously into thinking that poets are morally pure and/or useless.

It is one thing to write a good sentence, another to write a good book.

I'm more interested in the writing than in the content per se (good writing can be about wallpaper and I'll devour it).

The sum of the parts equals less than the whole. Or the howl. Or the how. Or the hole.