I Knew A Book Of Mine Was

Women Have Waited Millions Of Years, Growing Separate As Another Species, With Visions And Priorities No Man-words, No Man-measurements Can Comprehend.

In Communist Countries, You Execute Your Poets. In The Free World, The Poets Execute Themselves.

Like I'm Dragging Bundles Of Old Clothes? I'm Carrying Artifacts That Breathe Fire. I'm Talking About A Language Of Smoke. These Are Three-dimensional Creatures That Can Mate. I'd No More Leave Them Go By The Side Of The Trail Than I Would My Child. I'll Carry Them Until Someone Amputates My Arms.

As A Citizen Of The Post-historical Variety, I Am In Continual Mourning And Prepared For Worse.

Writing Is Like Hunting. There Are Brutally Cold Afternoons With Nothing In Sight, Only The Wind And Your Breaking Heart. Then The Moment When You Bag Something Big. The Entire Process Is Beyond Intoxicating.