We were of thirteen minds, like a tree, in which there is one Red-tail and eleven squirrel parts.
The more inhuman we became the more we understood each other as humans.
How can I stand before you in silent symbols with open palms?
Fights begin and end with handshakes.
It’s cool when fashion recycles itself, it’s not cool when sustainable living does because it means there was (and is as I write) a period of absolute and possibly irreversible destruction.
We give up our backs and allow religious myths to apply the rear naked choke to our minds.
If pain is a pot of boiling water, humor can be the rising steam.
Like forearm veins, my interests spread in different directions and eventually led to the hands, to writing.
Fighting and writing’s deepest layers of beauty lie not only in the physical and mental realms of what we know, but also as an incognizable instinct, a realm we will never fully know but will forever...
Stories do not change, only the lives they live in do.
I’ve learned to fall like the BJJ player, to protect the body through controlling the distribution of force by slapping the mat with hands open. With hands open. Hands open. Open. O Pen.
Poets, like fighters, both reap the benefits of roadwork.
A poet could kill the dead.
The words he said, too, must be human enough to bleed.
