I started writing when I was about thirteen.

At a certain age you're always uncertain how other people will take you.

I don't think I do have a soul.

Uneasily the leaves fall at this season, forgetting what to do or where to go the red amnesiacs of autumn drifting thru the graveyard forest. What they have forgotten they have forgotten: what they meant to do instead of fall is not in earth or time recoverable the fossils of intention, the shapes of rot.

In my own mind, I was sort of a desperate kid.

I'm not religious in any formal sense, not in any God sense.

A collected poems' is either a gravestone or a testimonial to survival.

I was desperately unhappy trying to adjust to the world.

And it occurs to me that if I were aboard a rowboat floating in the middle of all the beer I've drunk in a lifetime, I'd never be able to see the shore.