The Story Of Her Life. God Gave

Girls Were Born Knowing How Destructive The Truth Could Be. They Learned To Hold It In, Tamp It Down, Like Gunpowder In An Old Fashioned Gun. Then It Exploded In Your Face On A November Day In The Rain.

The Night Crackled ... Everything Had Turned To Static Electricity In The Heat. I Combed My Hair To Watch The Sparks Fly From The Ends.

It Was Her First Book, An Indigo Cover With A Silver Moonflower, An Art Nouveau Flower, I Traced My Finger Along The Silver Line Like Smoke, Whiplash Curves. ... I Touched The Pages Her Hands Touched, I Pressed Them To My Lips, The Soft Thick Old Paper, Yellow Now, Fragile As Skin. I Stuck My Nose Between The Bindings And Smelled All The Readings She Had Given, The Smell Of Unfiltered Cigarettes And The Espresso Machine, Beaches And Incense And Whispered Words In The Night. I Could Hear Her Voice Rising From The Pages. The Cover Curled Outward Like Sails.

Just Because A Poet Said Something Didn’t Mean It Was True, Only That It Sounded Good.

If I Get Ideas Independently Of The Act Of Writing, They Never Really Fit. So For Me, There's No Hanging Out, Waiting For Inspiration.