Being Alive Is A Common Road. It's

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.

I Am Looking For The Human Who Admits His Flaws Who Shocks The Adversary By Being Kinder Not Stronger What Would That Be Like? We Don't Even Know

My Mother Used To Tell Me When I Went Somewhere, "please Leave Your Foolishness At Home." But How Could I Do That? It Was Stuck On Me.

Because Sometimes I Live In A Hurricane Of Words And Not One Of Them Can Save Me.

I Support All People On Earth Who Have Bodies Like And Unlike My Body, Skins And Moles And Old Scars, Secret And Public Hair, Crooked Toes. I Support Those Who Have Done Nothing Large.