I Sit In The Dark And Wait

But My Heart Is Always Propped Up In A Field On Its Tripod, Ready For The Next Arrow.

Listeners Are Kind Of Ambushed... If A Poem Just Happens To Be Said When They're Listening To The Radio. The Listener Doesn't Have Time To Deploy What I Call Their 'poetry Deflector Shields' That Were Installed In High School - There's Little Time To Resist The Poem.

While The Novelist Is Banging On His Typewriter, The Poet Is Watching A Fly In The Windowpane.

In The Process Of Simplifying Oneself, One Often Discovers The Thing Called Voice.

It's Time To Float On The Waters Of The Night. Time To Wrap My Arms Around This Book And Press It To My Chest, Life Preserver In A Seat Of Unremarkable Men And Women Anonymous Faces On The Street, A Hundred Thousand Unalphabitized Things A Million Forgotten Hours.