“When you’re a kid, they tell you it’s all… Grow up, get a job, get married, get a house, have a kid, and that’s it. But the truth is, the world is so much stranger than that. It’s so much darker. And so much madder. And so much better.”
“The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.”
This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me
The simple News that Nature told,
With tender Majesty
Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see
For love of Her — Sweet — countrymen
Judge tenderly — of Me
May I write words more naked than flesh,
stronger than bone, more resilient than
sinew, sensitive than nerve.
And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night —
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky ––the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.Poetry fills me with joyand I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.But mostly poetry fills me with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti —
to be perfectly honest for a moment –the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.