Because Sometimes I Live In A Hurricane

Anyone Who Says, “here’s My Address, Write Me A Poem,” Deserves Something In Reply. So I’ll Tell You A Secret Instead: Poems Hide. In The Bottoms Of Our Shoes, They Are Sleeping. They Are The Shadows Drifting Across Our Ceilings The Moment Before We Wake Up. What We Have To Do Is Live In A Way That Lets Us Find Them.

A Poem Is A Cup Of Words Open To The Sky And Wind In A Bucket.

I Want To Be Famous In The Way A Pulley Is Famous, Or A Buttonhole, Not Because It Did Anything Spectacular, But Because It Never Forgot What It Could Do.

I Grew Up In St. Louis In A Tiny House Full Of Large Music - Mahalia Jackson And Marian Anderson Singing Majestically On The Stereo, My German-american Mother Fingering 'the Lost Chord' On The Piano As Golden Light Sank Through Trees, My Palestinian Father Trilling In Arabic In The Shower Each Dawn.

My Father Was Very Disappointed By War And Fighting. And He Thought Language Could Help Us Out Of Cycles Of Revenge And Animosity. And So, As A Journalist, He Always Found Himself Asking Lots Of Questions And Trying To Gather Information. He Was Always Very Clear To Underscore The Fact That Jewish People And Arab People Were Brother And Sister.