I Write A Lot By Sound. One

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.

I Know California Isn't A Real Destination. You Can't Get There From New Jersey, Not Simply By Following A Line Drawn On A Map. The Process Of Arrival Is More Subtle And Complex. It Involves Acts Of Contrition. You Must Appease The Gods. You Must Find Novel Forms Of Penance. You Must Tattoo Your Children And Look At The Wonder. It's About Conjuring And Awakening And Intuitions You Wish You Never Had.

I Believed In Immaculate Conception And Spontaneous Combustion. I Believed In Aliens From Outer Space And Vampires, Prophecy, And The Resurrection Of The Dead. I Had Deja Vu Many Times Each Day. I Was Thirteen.

Whenever I Get Lost In A Novel I Just Throw A Poem In. What It Does Is Flare Up, And It's So Illuminated That I'm Able To See Where To Go. I Write Between These Illuminations.

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