Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.

But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.

Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.

There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still