I Write What's Given Me To Write.

The Irony Is, Going To Work Every Day Became The Subject Of Probably My Best Poetry.

I Find You In These Tears, Few, Useless And Here At Last. Don't Come Back.

I Say, Father, The Years Have Brought Me Here, Still Your Son, They Have Brought Me To A Life I Cannot Understand.

It's Ironic That While I Was A Worker In Detroit, Which I Left When I Was Twenty Six, My Sense Was That The Thing That's Going To Stop Me From Being A Poet Is The Fact That I'm Doing This Crummy Work.

You Have To Follow Where The Poem Leads. And It Will Surprise You. It Will Say Things You Didn't Expect To Say. And You Look At The Poem And You Realize, 'that Is Truly What I Felt.' That Is Truly What I Saw.