Why I Write

Because an invisible man hunkers in a hole beneath the city, subverting.

Because an orphan clings to a coffin floating in the open sea.

Because nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

Because no matter how often I look, Atticus Finch loses that trial. Every. Damn. Time.

Because things fall apart.

Because firemen burn books.

Because a good man is hard to find.

Because I can’t please be quiet please.

Because I’m doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice.

Because if the child is not the word of God God never spoke.

Because Jesus spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower.

Because being forgiven creates a peculiar shame.

Because a rough beast slouches toward Bethlehem.

Because I want to talk about what we talk about when we talk about love.

Because the love you take is equal to the love you make.

Because I cut my own switches.

Because your dragonfly is my snakedoctor.

Because time’s a goon.

Because I can’t go gentle into that good night.

Because fiction is trouble.

Because I have miles to go before I sleep,

And a tombstone is not enough.