Signs of a maddening system of writing and counting that calibrates the values of something the poet does not yet know. Praxis is therefore poetics.

The city and nature, the built stone and the found stone, concrete and slate, poetry addresses them all democratically.

If I could write a novel while I'm walking, I probably would.

Singing has nothing to do with poetry, except as twins separated at birth.

Crows appear in many of my new unpublished poems. In these walks, they take on a symbolic life apart from their irritating, undeniable, interruptive presence. I figure them differently.

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.

I don't know where to place my body. Everyone notices that about me. I'm very restless.