I hunt inspiration. All the time, everywhere; in my eggs and coffee, in the newspaper,
and in the field. Most of life is a dull, drawn out tedium of work and repetition, carpe with no diem, and so I look for moments when I feel as if I can say something beyond what I have already said, to feel something I have not felt before, and the more you read, the more you fuck, the more you smell, the harder it is to read, fuck or smell something new, and so the hunt becomes more vital, especially as a poet. I go to the journals; I go to my phone; I go to the bookstore hunting for something new, but most of the time I can tell within the first line if a poem is dead or alive; so, it makes hunting easier, but still to find something that spanks, something that kicks, something that makes you feel like you're about to get laid, is the dream, the American dream, my only dream, and to find it without drugs; well, coffee is okay, but to find it without drugs, to find it without killing yourself in the process, drinking yourself to death, not even bukowski could do it, but sweet jesus, he is forgiven, because now, even sober, he is still my hero, my inspiration, simply because he told the fucking truth.