No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Unlike non-fiction or journalistic writing, fiction challenges norms more implicitly. I have always found audiences to be more receptive to, and empathetic towards, fiction. I appreciate fiction that is raw and brave, that sensitizes people towards truths they otherwise refuse to confront.
Everybody gets the same cut, no matter the plea, the magazine coiffures thrust forth; it’s always just like his: pompadour full on top, tapered crew buzzed on all sides.
If you think poetry is in the service of something I feel sorry for you.
He couldn’t speak words he didn’t know about feelings, truths, mysteries, and ecstasies he didn’t understand. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of the shame amplifying within him, though he tried, parting this stitched-up lips to speak.
I think Mr. de Kooning, if he’s still alive, is the one who needs a psychiatrist. Or maybe he’s in jail, which is why he named the painting the Police Gazette.
I don’t know why I’m here, walking on fissured tar bubbled by roots.
Who knows what else this great disturbance of earth awoke?