By the time I looked over my shoulder, the sun had already fallen.
Progressive stages of revision eliminate incidence in favor of essence.
I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.
Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.
We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.
I want to focus on bears. On knowing them, and on what they need.
Man is always beginning everything anew, even in his own life.
The survival of our world depends upon the cultivation of better language.
Advance planning was never Hank’s strong suit, he had to leave her.
Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.
How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
My bike, my skinny body, my pent breath was thrown to the grass.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
He said he had come back to the prison because it was home.
They taught us do not touch it, but who can keep from touching it?
Art touches the soul and moves life in ways that commerce cannot. E. L. Doctorow noted that writers seem to get business ideas almost right.
We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.
Lost land, this is a song for the scars on your back, for your blistered feet.
In the morning light, I could hear Bashō hard at work.
For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.
The first time we love, how tight we hang on to keep from drowning.
He is not a man, but an empty shell, a creature who laughs to stop the shame.
Subtract for the cigarettes, the bourbon, the sleepless nights.
You can get anyone to sleep with you—if you want it bad enough.
Getting answers is easy. The difficult thing is knowing the right questions.
I wanted from my father what I had never wanted or sought: his advice.
It was the sixties, and I was in
college and incredibly restless.
If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.
The old dog of inertia gets up with a growl and shrinks out of the way.