To Try To Expunge An Individual's History

Once One Habit Peels Away The Others Follow It. You Have To Hold On, Or The Next Thing You'll Find Yourself Parading Down The Street In Your Nightdress. Habit Is Everything.

Those Who Try To Obliterate The Past Are Injuring The Present.

Reread, Rewrite, Reread, Rewrite. If It Still Doesn't Work, Throw It Away. It's A Nice Feeling, And You Don't Want To Be Cluttered With The Corpses Of Poems And Stories Which Have Everything In Them Except The Life They Need.

If The Garden Of Eden Really Exists It Does So Moment By Moment, Fragmented And Tough, Cropping Up Like A Fan Of Buddleia High Up In The Gutter Of A Deserted Warehouse, Or In A Heap Of Frozen Cabbages Becoming Luminous In The Reflected Light Of Roadside Snow.

I Have Learned So Much From Working With Other Poets, Travelling And Reading With Them, Spending Days Discussing Poems In Progress. There Is The Sense That We Are All, As Writers, Part Of Something Which Is More Powerful Than Any Of Us.