Today, from the bridge, the East River is sparkling. The money is swirling around the tall buildings like tides or like tithes, And I wonder, does anyone swim in this river, I wonder, does anyone pray?

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

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.

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.

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

I think it is extremely interesting to think that, in some cases, vice might be, finally, more redemptive than virtue.

Poetry is God's work.