Trying to sell a book of poems is like trying your whole life to avoid suffering. Trying to sell a book of poetry is like trying to teach pigs to fly, talk jive to a turtle, sing sweet nothings to every loss you’ve had. There’s a seaside burden in such loneliness. You walk to and fro, hoping to sell a bit of your wounded and triumphant soul and nobody gives a damn it seems. So you try to sing louder too. You try getting religious even with pleating prayers to a foreign god. There’s wind-chimes and all the lies come like a new kind of wind-song. And luck comes to you like freedom and you too breaking bread and drinking wine, and there’s an infinity of truths dancing through your mind. Every shadow a blessing in summer’s hot throat. Yes, you too nothing but a brief season.