Write one thing. Write the next thing.
There’s a line that says, “my mother looked better alive.” I was having a conversation with Donald and “we look better alive” just kind of spilled off my tongue.
You absolutely cannot do Finnish word for word. It would be garbage.
They do not have a next stop. They just have to die now.
It's as though the force behind the dream which then becomes a poem is not me, and if certain details seem autobiographical, that's just incidental.
If you have one hour and you write for that whole hour, suddenly there is a book or at least part of a book, and when you have part of a book, you can always finish it.
"But again, I did not succeed at destroying capitalism with my crown of sonnets. Language alone of course cannot rid us of our conditions. Is that very pessimistic?"
Lababidi’s Palestine Wail calls for the simplest, barest humanity, and it reminds us that loss of life, occupation, and genocide take an impossible toll on everyone.
Because even if you're speaking about ghosts, you're always speaking about yourself—about your neighbors and about your own history.
Lange presents a beautiful and moving depiction of Laughner as a tragic poet amidst the end of the industrial empire of which Cleveland and Northeast Ohio were a microcosm.
I think I'm really interested in things that iterate and shift depending on context, depending on vantage, depending on perspective, depending on relation. So maybe that's what some of that is.
This never really happens, but I wanted it to be a book that anybody could read, more or less, because I got so many ideas for stories from people I worked with—when I worked on farms or in light construction, or growing up working at a pizza place. I always write and read in the morning, and when I worked on the farms or in construction, I would try to do a little bit before work since I knew the day was going to be tiring.