I’ve had it with all stingy-hearted sons of bitches. A heart is to be spent.

When I stop becoming, that's when I worry.

What feeling feels like over time. An attempt to screw up what feeling feels like over time. Heartbreak and a high C.... The often welcome melodic lie.... The soul's undersong. The orchestration of randomness, a flirtation with the boundaries of silence and space.... a reminder that the self wants to disappear, be taken away from itself and returned.

A true inner world is often revealed by style and sensibility as much as by what appears to be confession.

And the words we find are always insufficient, like love, though they are often lovely and all we have.

If the motive of writing is for some people a kind of exercise in dirty laundry, that's one thing. I've always thought of my poems as meant to be overheard, as I think all of these poems are. It seems to me if you get experience right, even your most painful or humiliating experiences - if you get those experiences right for yourself and make discoveries as you go along and find for them some formal glue - they will be poems for others.

Although I know it's unfair, I reveal myself one mask at a time.