“I like beautiful melodies telling me terrible things.”

I’ve seen it all through the yellow windows of the evening train.

You’re my North Star when I’m lost and feeling blue.

I don’t like the stigma that comes with being called a poet. So I call what I’m doing an improvisational adventure or an inebriational travelogue.

Break windows, smoke cigars, and stay up late. Tell ’em to do that, they’ll find a little pot of gold.

Sing me a rainbow. Steal me a dream.

I don’t go to church on Sunday, don’t get on my knees to pray, or memorize the books of the Bible, I got my own special way

On my gravestone, I want it to say, “I told you I was sick.”

The big print giveth and the small print taketh away.

I was always laughing in church.

I’ll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials on my arm.

Don’t plant your days they turn into weeds.

When you’re writing‚ you’re conjuring. It’s a ritual‚ and you need to be brave and respectful and sometimes get out of the way of whatever it is that you’re inviting into the room.

A mental midget with the IQ of a fence post.

I do some acting. And there’s a difference between “I do some acting” and “I’m an actor.”

She’s got the whole dark forest living inside of her.

I’m trying to get music ideas that come and keep them alive. It’s like carrying water in your hands. I want to keep it all, and sometimes by the time you get to the studio you have nothing.