Ten Years, She's Dead, And I Still

We Are In The Grip Of Some Big Machine Grinding Us Along. The Force Of It Simplifies Everything. A Weird Calm Settled Over Me From Inside Out. What Is About To Happen Has Stood In Line To Happen. All The Roads Out Of That Instant Have Been Closed, One By One.

Even The Best Of Us Are At Least Part-time Bastards.

I Think We Fall In Love And Become Adults And Become Citizens In A Way By Writing Stories About Ourselves.

The Emotional Stakes A Memoirist Bets With Could Not Be Higher, And It's Physically Enervating. I Nap On A Daily Basis Like A Cross-country Trucker.

I Always Say That A Poet Loves The World, And The Prose Writer Needs To Create An Alternative World.