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She has beautiful cheekbones, but her eyes are nearly colorless.

All afternoon it rains on the traffic outside my window. It’s nothing new.

I came to computers while trying to run away from literature.

There was one lease Homer Young wanted above all others.

No matter how hard I played, it was like I was performing inside a vacuum.

He spoke of the river’s origins as though telling of the birth of a god.

My first girl, only sixteen year and she go, she run away to you.

We lived below the poverty level. I wasn’t allowed to desire objects.

The main thing a poet tries to do, above all things, is to write a poem.

The best writers talk a story the way they put it down on the page.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

I dream a sonnet made of buttons posed stiff against its milky plastic sky.

That’s how a lifetime passes, closing the wound, a million stitches.

I take a sip of Turkish coffee and wrinkle my nose, like a baby.

For Henry Moore there is not only the best day but the worst.

The itch of hay dust was the unscratchable itch of desire.

It’s hard to save your own life, to take such extreme measures alone.

she had big eyes, the better to see right through a person.

A goddam mean big sonofabitch boar rooted me in the stomach.

It wasn’t me he was aiming at; he was using me to make my mom unhappy.

He sobbed; he said he would go to therapy, stop drinking.

What can go heartbreakingly wrong, and what would you do?

He saw the car bearing down and gave it the finger, a snarl on his face.

They felt smarter and sexier, especially when together.

He’s walking loopy, so I know he’s been had something besides beer.

His eyes rested on the trees. By George, it’s like the garden of Eden.

The baby in her belly is not a sibling, will never be their playmate.

Maybe that’s what she feels, not stranded, but suspended in time.

I’m not afraid of dying. I’ve died on camera before. It’s not so bad.