Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape.

Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape.

I'm lucky enough to occasionally be able to do something I love - write poems - and unlucky enough that what I love confuses and overwhelms me.

The words secret and sacred are siblings.

A poem is a neutrino - mainly nothing - it has no mass and can pass through the earth undetected.

Irreverence is a way of playing hooky and remaining present at the same time.

Yes, the mistrust of poetry has a long history, for a variety of reasons, but they all come down to sentiment and invention over fact and truth. Figurative language is suspicious.