- We're not supposed to outlive our children. It isn't natural. 905 days I have lived in a sort of hell. It's like a weight you carry that you can't set down. No, that's not right. I don't have the words. Isn't that funny? A poet without the words. It's nearly midnight as I write this. Then it will be 906 days without my son in the world. My son.
- I was at a poetry reading tonight. One featured poet had to cancel and the host got a young poet to fill in. She has talent. You could hear her youth in her words and in her voice, but you could hear her truth, too. What she wrote was real. And that's something. Hell, that's everything.
- I've started making lists. I spent a life hating lists and refusing to make them. If something got missed, forgotten, then to hell with it. That doesn't work for me anymore, and I am not sure why. Lists of things I need to do with my day. Lists of things I need to buy. Lists of people I need to speak with.
- I hope I am a good man. I'm not perfect, you know. I mess up sometimes. I mean to be decent, to treat people right. I also try to keep negative people away from me. But I hope I am a good man anyway. I mean to be.
- I take days one at a time. Sometimes even a minute at a time. At night I put that day down, like setting down a tool.