I Don't Think I Look Like The

Those Are Only Rumors Of Suffering. Real Suffering Has A Face And A Smell. It Lasts In The Most Intense Form No Matter What You Drape Over It. And It Knows Your Name.

There's A Space At The Bottom Of An Exhale, A Little Hitch Between Taking In And Letting Out That's A Perfect Zero You Can Go Into. There's A Rest Point Between The Heart Muscle's Close And Open - An Instant Of Keenest Living When You're Momentarily Dead. You Can Rest There.

I Always Say That A Poet Loves The World, And The Prose Writer Needs To Create An Alternative World.

He Never Gave Up On Me, I Only Stopped Being Matriculated.

It Turned Out To Be Impossible For Me To 'run Away' In The Sense Other American Teenagers Did. Any Movement At All Was Taken For Progress In My Family.