Slowly
a pile of red skin grows on the table,
like snow or eyelashes unattached
to a wish.

The island was ours; each kissing gate and the kisses inside of them, each water trough, every animal call, root, rock, dock leaf and bunker. Even the moon.

“I believe if you read a lot, your mind learns the ability to play different games or see different options in every situation that non-readers might not see.”

The birds (of paradise) are chittering
which seems insufficient
for a poem, because it does not match
the intensity—or is it pain?—

“Telling one’s own story is as important to a certain kind of survival as food and shelter.”

This week I learned that every other year the Holy Ghost plants a baby seed in a married mom’s tummy. Nine months later a slit opens up underneath across the bottom and the baby slides out.

Perhaps the only way kaleidoscopes can forever renew themselves is by not asking you to look into them, but by asking you to look out from them. Why not?

“So often as writers, our first instinct is to write about some far off distant place that we know nothing about because we think where we came from is not interesting enough.”

“I’m all for noir. What is a cyborg poet to do? If I’m comic, then I play into the carnival show. If I’m tragic, then I reinforce centuries of pity for the disabled figure in literature. Noir warps the comic and the tragic.”

At first there was one god. As far as it knew, it was entirely alone in an endless expanse of nothingness.