The challenge is to keep up with all the new poets at the same time I love the old ones.
Maybe the world, without us, is the real poem.
Drive down any road, take a train or an airplane across the world, leave your old life behind, die and be born again~ wherever you arrive they'll be there first, glossy and rowdy and indistinguishable. The deep muscle of the world.
The sea isn't a place but a fact, and a mystery.
I grew up in a sad, depressed place. I got out. Poetry saved my life.
I climb, I backtrack. I float. I ramble my way home.