We share nothing but our humanity. And sometimes we share our lunch.

My implosion is my confession.

Sometimes the slow dance of poetry needs to pick up its tempo—or change tunes entirely.

Who says poetry is the best way to communicate? It is probably the worst way. Depending on how you define “poetry.” And “worst.” And “is.”

When we say, “There you have it,” we rarely know where “there” is or what “it” is.

I’m waiting for the day I fall on my face—then I’ll have an excuse for getting a nose job.

I’ve reached the existential moment where the question “How can I do the most good?” has been replaced by “How can I do the least harm?”

I looked at my poetry today and felt lonely, alone. Then I thought, “Yes, this is how it’s supposed to feel.”

If public libraries want to be relevant, they need to identify and address issues relevant to their communities, not hide from those issues.

I like books because they age with me.

I am more interested in curating content than creating it.

My preoccupations betray my privilege.

Clever is the new dull.

My not watching TV has its advantages: It keeps nonsense framed as just that, instead of giving it a sense of meaning.

Geeky T-shirt I want to have made: “Don’t blame me. Blame my social network.”

As soon as I see an ampersand in a poem, I stop reading.

I love libraries because you can find books you like—and walk away with them.

When poets are no longer relevant, they construct little universes in which they appear to be.

When reading Pablo Neruda, one might forget that the past tense exists.

A dark planet is not the solution; a sustainably illuminated one is.