The world makes liars of us all.

I know that the writers I read and admire all have an influence on my work, but trying to determine to what degree any particular piece of input changes the way I think about writing seems counterproductive.

I guess I find the boundaries between poetry and prose to be somewhat permeable.

Writing was always an aspiration, but I'd kept it a secret even from myself.

The male role models I had all seemed to have been in the military. My father served in the army. My uncle was in the Marine Corps. Both of my grandfathers served in WWII. There weren't any career soldiers in my family, but when I was young it seemed like a way of arriving at adulthood.

All pain is the same. Only the details are different.

There is a sharp distinction between what is remembered, what is told and what is true.