You Say To Yourself, Well, This Poem

I Got About Half The Time I Wanted To Write Poetry. I Got About Half The Time I Needed To Be A Father. So There Is Something In Adulthood That Has To Do With Accepting The Half Of Things, Allowing A Renunciation Of The Other Half, Accepting Half A Basket Instead Of A Full Basket.

The World Belongs Primarily To The Dead, And We Only Rent It From Them For A Little While. They Created It, They Wrote Its Literature And Its Songs, And They Are Deeply Invested In How Children Are Treated, Because The Children Are The Ones Who Will Keep It Going. The Idea That Each Of Us Has The Right To Change Everything Is A Deep Insult To Them.

My Life Failed On The Very Day I Was Born.

The Lead Either Forges An Instant Connection With The Reader, Or The Package Fails.

When Anyone Seriously Pursues An Art - Painting, Poetry, Sculpture, Composing - Over Twenty Or Thirty Years, The Sustained Discipline Carries The Artist Down To The Countryside Of Grief, And That Descent, Resisted So Long Proves Invigorating. . . . As I've Gotten Older, I Find I Am Able To Be Nourished More By Sorrow And To Distinguish It From Depression.