A sudden gust: How big the world seems in a wind.
In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?
I hated childhood I hate adulthood And I love being alive.
If you have any idea for a poem, an exact grid of intent, you are on the wrong path, a dead-end alley, at the top of a cliff you haven't even climbed. This is a lesson that can only be learned by trial and error.
The industrial world destroys nature not because it doesn’t love it but because it is not afraid of it.
When I first encountered the poems of Jon Woodward, I was stunned into the state that is my life's joy-I was in the presence of the inimitable. Uncanny Valley extends that experience-almost into another dimension. These apocalyptic, pixilated poems forge a mythology of our ravaged culture, one that might have been written in the future. If you want poetry to give you a persimmon on a plate, look elsewhere; if you want to know what happens when seven trees fall on the highway and the story is told by a stutterer, this is the book, and it could only have been written by Woodward.
My happiness is marred only by my failure to attain it.
He was one of those men who, even in the years of peace, would have advised his congregation that while God may well be honored by the inflexibility of the pious, he might also be honored by the flexibility of the sensible.
Like Chekhov, I am a collector of souls. . . if I hadn't been an artist, I could have been a psychiatrist.
Charity is no substitute for justice withheld.
I grew up with classical music blasting in my parents' living room and my older brother's practicing saxophone in his room listening to jazz. . . a beautiful chaos.