The greatest disappointment of my life thus far is learning that we are as isolated in our joy as we are in our sorrow.

Sometimes the kindness thing we can do for one another is remain silent.

I write poems so people I love can come with me into places and experiences I love.

There is a difference between bringing people you love along with you in a poem and trying to do so in real life. The former is improbable; the latter impossible.

Everything said publicly is now said through indirection, secretly—through gestures and nods.

Eternity isn’t something we are deluded into believing. It’s something that, over the course of our lives, we are disciplined out of believing.

The End of Times is perhaps the only way we can justify leaving something as beautiful as the earth behind. Why not shift the responsibility for that misfortune to God? We need a great story to justify such a great loss.

The truth is, without knowing it, I used to admit only the concept of a God who wanted us all to be rich. And because so many of us are poor, I didn’t think there could be a God. That’s how deeply rooted capitalism is within me. That’s how—even though I am the ninety-nine percent, I do the work of the one percent—the work of striving, of failing, of blaming the failures of a system on myself and others who don’t control that system or even understand its inner workings, of blaming God for not being a capitalist who works by way of greed and exclusion.

I had no life before poetry. I had nothing. I was lost.

In my case, it doesn’t matter how gifted the life is. Without poetry, it’s impossible to see the gifts—the way a frog will die even if surrounded by flies, if those flies are not moving. The frog is simply not programmed to “see” flies that don’t move. Poetry, for me, makes things move, sets the gifts of the world, the gift of the world itself, in motion.

Things to do in Walla Walla: 1. Write a book of poems, 2. Grow out your hair.

I think the best marriage in a poem would be Charles Wright and Steven Wright.

Thinking for yourself is always a good thing. Thinking for someone else is never a good thing.

I like the letters to the editor in the local paper. They help me figure out who to avoid.

Tonight as I left the Farm Labor Home, one of the kids I teach ran behind my car, waving goodbye to me under the waxing gibbous moon.

Before we talk about sharing wealth, we need to ask ourselves where that wealth came from—who suffered or died, what lands and habitats were stolen, destroyed or altered beyond recognition—for that wealth to have been amassed in the first place. I don’t know about you, but there is wealth in this country, in this world, that I don’t want any part of.

Removing producers from this country—largely situating workers overseas, over there, beyond our boundaries—also removes the very body that could make a difference, that could rise up and make a difference.