Through the years I have seen myself as a peaceful person, but the awareness of the anger is part of that process.

I close my eyes and can see men drawing lines in the dust. America pushes through the membrane of mist and smoke, and I'm a small boy again in Bogalusa.

Poets are seen as the caretakers of language, so working with words no matter what the form is what we do.

I’ve been here before, dreaming myself backwards, among grappling hooks of light. True to the seasons, I’ve lived every word spoken. Did I walk into someone’s nightmare?

I think of my poems as personal and public at the same time. You could say they serve as psychological overlays. One fits on top of the other, and hopefully there's an ongoing evolution of clarity.

I am this space my body believes in.

I said that love heals from inside.