You went out with a girl at first because the sheer sight of her made you weak in the knees. You fell in love and were desperate not to let her get away. And yet the more you thought about her, the less you knew who she was.
When you do bad things and your partner forgives you, you know just how lucky you are and how much you don’t deserve them.
Isn’t it true that a pleasant house makes winter more poetic, and doesn’t winter add to the poetry of a house?
Ten days down. 19k words. 30 pages.
It was possible to feel superior to other people and like a misfit at the same time.
When you spot a constellation…you look up and you don’t see all the stars. All the stars just look like the big fugging random mess that they are. But you want to see shapes; you want to see stories, so you pick them out of the sky.
John Green, And Abundance of Katherines
I had the big dipper tattooed on my forearm two weeks ago. Looking down at it, I feel like a more complete me.
These are fine days because they end with you. Let me just say this: I’m going to kiss you until my lips fall off. If my lips don’t fall off, I will kiss up your spine until I run out of spine. Then I’ll start over.
And a month after I get published for the first time, I get my first rejection. A sour way to start the day.
As a poet I’m naturally contrary. If most writers are writing prose, then mostly I’m writing something else. Poetry, by definition, is an alternative, and an obstinate one at that. It often refuses to reach the right-hand margin or even the bottom of the page. Prose fills a space, like a liquid poured in from the top, but poetry occupies it, arrays itself in formation, sets up camp and refuses to budge. It is a dissenting and wilful art form, and most of its practitioners are signed-up members of the awkward squad.
The heart knots-up, locked into the bittersweet
melancholy of a ghost town rodeo arena…
a splinter-crumble pine barn behind the chutes.
Unreal grey ponies, ancient coiled reatas:
1964’s rodeo queen rips sour lottery tickets.
Writing, I think, is not apart from living,
Writing is a kind of double living.