I want to be someone making music/with my coming.

Anyone who says, “Here’s my address, write me a poem,” deserves something in reply. So I’ll tell you a secret instead: poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to do is live in a way that lets us find them.

Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

Energy is everything. Rubbing happy and sad together creates energy.

My mother used to tell me when I went somewhere, "Please leave your foolishness at home." But how could I do that? It was stuck on me.

Sometimes there’s no one to listen to what you really might like to say at a certain moment. The paper always listens.

Facts interest me less than the trailing smoke of stories.