Out Of Grad School, I Worked As

Maybe Happiness Is Like A Virus. Maybe It's One Of Those Bugs That Sits For A Long Time, So We Don't Even Know That We Are Infected.

Librarian Is A Service Occupation. Gas Station Attendant Of The Mind.

I Write The Way You Might Arrange Flowers. Not Every Try Works, But Each One Launches Another. Every Constraint, Even Dullness, Frees Up A New Design.

Music Forecasts The Past, Recalls The Future. Now And Then The Difference Falls Away, And In One Simple Gift Of Circling Sound, The Ear Solves The Scrambled Cryptogram. One Abiding Rhythm, Present And Always, And You're Free. But A Few Measures More, And The Cloak Of Time Closes Back Around You.

I Don't Mind Arguing With Myself. It's When I Lose That It Bothers Me.