I want, I want, I want! We never grow out of it somehow. Unless we become Buddhists, maybe.

Even after the mothering dropped because my son grew up, the writing - the muse - was always the third wheel, the lowest on the priority list.

I'm much more comfortable in pants and shirts, running around. There was a typical construction about womanhood when I was growing up that I rejected.

The poem is not a physical body. It's a textual body that has life only insofar as it can act symbolically. It cannot physically act.

I'm surrounded by men, and the muse is complaining that I have neglected her.

Rather, the collapsing between act and condition, "I am" with "I do," feels like authenticity, an authenticity of being. The muse rewarded me for a few months, after April of 2012, by giving me poems, almost a poem each day, that I can claim as coming from my writer's status.

New formalism is writing with language as flow, like the flow from a dam, running through a desert that has had no rain for decades.