Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.

I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.

I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.

I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I have written a poem, when I'm writing one. Having written one, then you fall away very rapidly from having been a poet to becoming a sort of poet in rest, which isn't the same thing at all. But I think the actual experience of writing a poem is a magnificent one.