The Poem Has To Bear

She Glances Back Before Stepping Into The Alley, And She Catches Her Grandfather Looking At Her The Way He Does Sometimes--as If She's Already Gone, As If He's Practicing Sorrow.

Are There Books About Us Or Something?” This Makes Pressia Angry - The Idea That This World Is A Subject Of Study, A Story, Instead Of Filled With Real People, Trying To Survive.

And I Know I'm Supposed To Feel Guilty For Wanting People To Buy My Books... And Books In General? Novels And Poetry, They Belong To The Realm Of Art. How Dirty Of Us To Try To Hawk Art! But, After A Decade Of Hand-wringing And Apologies, I Can't Quite Muster The Guilt Anymore.

I Was Born In The Era Of The Novel. I've Written Many, As Well As Collections Of Poetry, And Essays For Mouthing Off. I've Written To Inches, Word-counts, Page-counts, Even The Sonnet And The Screenplay (which I Call A Plot Poem). I Write Narrative. That's It. I Just Want To Tell It.

I Feel Too Much. It's Like Being Drummed To Death From Within. You Know?