It Is My Heart That's Late, It

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.

Memory Is Each Man's Poet-in-residence.

Some Poems Present Themselves As Cliffs That Need To Be Climbed. Others Are So Defensive That When You Approach Their Enclosure You Half Expect To Be Met By A Snarling Dog At The Gate. Still Others Want To Smother You With Their Sticky Charms.

Writer's Block Is A Natural Affliction. Writers Who Have Never Experienced It Have Something Wrong With Them. It Means There Isn't Enough Friction-that They Aren't Making Enough Of An Effort To Reconcile The Contradictions Of Life. All You Get Is Sweet Monotonous Flow. Writer's Block Is Nothing To Commit Suicide Over. It Simply Indicates Some Imbalance Between Your Experience And Your Art, And I Think That's Constructive.