It is memory that provides the heart with impetus, fuels the brain, and propels the corn plant from seed to fruit.

I've always had a theory that some of us are born with nerve endings longer than our bodies

My generation is now the door to memory. That is why I am remembering.

If you do not answer the noise and urgency of your gifts, they will turn on you. Or drag you down with their immense sadness at being abandoned.

A story matrix connects all of us. There are rules, processes, and circles of responsibility in this world. And the story begins exactly where it is supposed to begin. We cannot skip any part.

Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their families, their histories too. Talk to them, listen to them. They are alive poems.

There is no separation. We are all from the same place. As long as there is respect and acknowledgement of connections, things continue working. When that stops we all die.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.

But come here, Fear. / I am alive! / And you are so afraid / of dying.

There is no poetry where there are no mistakes.

How long would it take for her sadness to ease? How long must she wait to forget a man who would've been her ideal, were he not who he was? The answer: too long. But wait she must.

I added 'writers' to my list of people not to trust. They make everything up.

Fools that will laugh on earth, most weep in hell.

So I'm more at home with my backpack, sleeping in a hotel room or on a bus or on an airplane, than I am necessarily on a bed. It's weird being here. It feels like I'm standing next to my real life.

I don't miss the obligation to be opinionated, but I do regret the chance to share a joy.

I guess the worst snow was the Kennedy inauguration in 1960. Heavy snow.

The secret of salvation is this: keep sweet, be useful, and keep busy.

I've always hated the way I looked.

You'll have to leave my meals on a tray outside the door because I'll be working pretty late on the secret of making myself invisible, which may take me almost until eleven o'clock.

How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?