If You Can Be Anything Else But

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.

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

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.

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.

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.