“Pakistan that we are appreciative for the help that’s been extended.”

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

I was desperately unhappy trying to adjust to the world.

I’d never be able to see the shore.

Teach them to think, ‘I’m not stupid’. No child wants to fail. Everyone wants to succeed.

So that’s my little ministry that the Big Man upstairs gave to me – a little ministry called love and happiness.

Some people believe that fairness comes with obeying the rules. I’m one of those people.

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

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

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 started writing when I was about thirteen.

I don’t think I do have a soul.

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.

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.

If I could live my life all over I’d do everything the same; the film in my camera would remain the same; there’s no way lord, to leave this love behind.

Pakistan’s being an ally and helping the United States, we ought to show

I’m thankful for every moment.

We can gaze at a person in the distance or at a cloud in the sky and be appreciative.