I Make Myself Up From Everything I

Exaggerated Sunsets / Splashed With Rain, Odd Collisions / Of Roots, Animals, Seeds. / I Didn't Like A Thing I Saw, / So Much Effort To Be Strange.

A True Inner World Is Often Revealed By Style And Sensibility As Much As By What Appears To Be Confession.

I Don't Let A Poem Go Into The World Unless I Feel That I've Transformed The Experience In Some Way. Even Poems I've Written In The Past That Appear Very Personal Often Are Fictions Of The Personal, Which Nevertheless Reveal Concerns Of Mine. I've Always Thought Of My First-person Speaker As An Amalgam Of Selves, Maybe Of Other People's Experiences As Well.

I’ve Had It With All Stingy-hearted Sons Of Bitches. A Heart Is To Be Spent.

A Moment Of Something Between Acceptance And Resignation Of One's Smallness In The World.