Going to Starbucks for coffee is like going to prison for sex. You know you're going to get it, but it's going to be rough.
Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter. . . Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
Don't tell people what you are thinking, or you will miss them terribly when you are away.
Reading is untidy, discursive and perpetually inviting.
Sober strip clubs are horrible. When you are sober you see the matrix code behind a strip club. You're paying girls to pretend to like you until you run out of money so they can walk away.
When a catcher has to use his thumb to give signs, that means the pitcher has more than four pitches.