“Being a man is bullshit; maybe trying to be a man had been the problem all along. At a certain point you just have to trust someone. Even if it’s only yourself.”

We have learned by now that our beauty does not count as a possession. The only thing we truly own is our legend.

The summer following the winter that my mother took off into something called Women’s Land for what I could only guess would be all eternity.

My father decided that there was no choice but for him to quit his despised job and take me and my brother to the beach for at least the entire summer and possibly longer.

We are renters and borrowers and, in the end, only thieves.

The world rushes through us. We are peaceful. We are as deep and black as space. Staring up at the stars, we see only our own image reflected back at us. We are infinite and we are ravenous.

Young Baby Boomers were forced to play duck-and-cover in school, in hopes that a desk would protect them from an atomic explosion. It was all bullshit, and they knew it.

The world is full of bullshitters, Liars, and triers and quitters, Coulda-beens, wannabe’s, thought-I-was, isn’t-I-is’s… And everybody in your business.

To be true to myself, to be the person that was on the inside of me, and not play games.

I’m just doing what I wanted to and what feels right and not settling for bullshit and it worked. How can they be mad at that?

That’s what I’m trying to do mostly in the whole world, is not bullshit myself and not bullshit anybody else.

Maybe primitive people have less bullshit to let go of, to give up.

Although I guess being a poet is a different than having to deal with 40 or 50 people to raise a couple million bucks and all that bullshit.

But it feels good to love a thing and not expect anything back. It feels good to not get an argument or any pushiness or any rumors or any bullshit. It’s love without strings. It’s ideal.