All The Emails I Get These Days

I Once Saw A Picture In The Paper Of John Hegley With 'poet' Written On His Knuckles, And I Thought That Was Pretty Cool, So I Was Quite Up Front About It.

It Takes A Lot Of Energy And Creativity To Make Such Screwed Up Lives Carry On. And The Kind Of Will People Have To Survive, Year After Year, Dealing With That Stuff, Is Weirdly Impressive.

I Wonder How Many Ways There Are For A Mother To Produce That Wreckage In Her Own Daughter, And My Muscles Tense As I Think Of Them.

If You Listen, You Can Hear It. The City, It Sings. If You Stand Quietly, At The Foot Of A Garden, In The Middle Of The Street, On The Roof Of A House. It's Clearest At Night, When The Sound Cuts More Sharply Across The Surface Of Things, When The Song Reaches Out To A Place Inside You. It's A Wordless Song, For The Most, But It's A Song All The Same, And Nobody Hearing It Could Doubt What It Sings. And The Song Sings The Loudest When You Pick Out Each Note.

There Are Only These: Sparkling Eyes, Smudged Lipstick, Fading Starlight, The Crunching Of Feet On Gravel, Laughter, And A Slow Walk Home.