Poetry: three mismatched shoes at the entrance of a dark alley.
Memory, all-night's bedside tattoo artist.
The Prodigal Dark morning rain Meant to fall On a prison and a schoolyard, Falling meanwhile On my mother and her old dog. How slow she shuffles now In my father’s Sunday shoes. The dog by her side Trembling with each step As he tries to keep up. I...
In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.
The ambition of much of today's literary theory seems to be to find ways to read literature without imagination.
A true confession: I believe in a soluble fish.
One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.
Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.
Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships.
The idea is to spin the wheel of metaphors and images until sparks of associations begin to fly for the reader.
For Emily Dickinson every philosophical idea was a potential lover. Metaphysics is the realm of eternal seduction of the spirit by ideas.
Poetry is an orphan of silence.
Inside is where we meet everyone else; it's on the outside that we are truly alone.
Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.
