God serves the choosy. They know what to want.

We are, each of us, our own prisoner. We are locked up in our own story.

Women are not supposed to have uteruses, especially in poems.

To write about the monstrous sense of alienation the poet feels in this culture of polarized hatreds is a way of staying sane. With the poem, I reach out to an audience equally at odds with official policy, and I celebrate our mutual humanness in an inhuman world.

One way of ending the poem is to turn it back on itself, like a serpent with its tail in its mouth.

Here on the drawing board fingers and noses leak from the air brush maggots lie under if i should die before if i should die in the back room stacked up in smooth boxes like soapflakes or tunafish wait the undreamt of.

Nature is a catchment of sorrows.