The World Makes Liars Of Us All.

The War Came To Me In My Dreams And Showed Me Its Sole Purpose: To Go On, Only To Go On.

I Had The Feeling That If I Encountered Anyone They Would Intuit My Disgrace And Would Judge Me Instantly. Nothing Is More Isolating Than Having A Particular History. At Least That's What I Thought. Now I Know: All Pain Is The Same. Only The Details Are Different.

There's Something Immediate About The Experience Of Reading A Poem. It Makes Sense In My Own Mind, But I'm Trying To Figure Out A Way To Articulate It... It's Like Looking At A Painting: You're Able To Take In The Totality Of The Work All At Once, And So Processing Whatever Information That Painting Is Giving You Is Almost Secondary To Simply Apprehending What's In Front Of You.

The Male Role Models I Had All Seemed To Have Been In The Military. My Father Served In The Army. My Uncle Was In The Marine Corps. Both Of My Grandfathers Served In Wwii. There Weren't Any Career Soldiers In My Family, But When I Was Young It Seemed Like A Way Of Arriving At Adulthood.

I Guess I Find The Boundaries Between Poetry And Prose To Be Somewhat Permeable.