Poetry Is A Dumb Buddha Who Thinks

We Have To Look At Our Own Inertia, Insecurities, Self-hate, Fear That, In Truth, We Have Nothing Valuable To Say. When Your Writing Blooms Out Of The Back Of This Garbage Compost, It Is Very Stable. You Are Not Running From Anything. You Can Have A Sense Of Artistic Security. If You Are Not Afraid Of The Voices Inside You, You Will Not Fear The Critics Outside You.

Stress Is Basically A Disconnection From The Earth, A Forgetting Of The Breath. Stress Is An Ignorant State. It Believes That Everything Is An Emergency. Nothing Is That Important. Just Lie Down.

Poetry Has Never Been A Favorite American Pastime.

It Is Odd That We Never Question The Feasibility Of A Football Team Practicing Long Hours For One Game; Yet In Writing We Rarely Give Ourselves The Space For Practice.

Whether We Know It Or Not, We Transmit The Presence Of Everyone We Have Ever Known, As Though By Being In Each Other's Presence We Exchange Our Cells, Pass On Some Of Our Lifeforce, And Then We Go On Carrying That Person In Our Body, Not Unlike Springtime When Certain Plants In Fields We Walk Through Attach Their Seeds In The Form Of Small Burrs To Our Socks, Our Pants, Our Caps, As If To Say, 'go On, Take Us With You, Carry Us To Root In Another Place.' This Is How We Survive Long After We Are Dead. This Is Why It Is Important Who We Become, Because We Pass It On.