For art of this statement I’ll borrow some words from Auden that I really dig, from The Dyer’s Hand: “Sincerity in the proper sense of the word, meaning authenticity, is, however, or ought to be, a writers’ chief preoccupation….Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about.” So, yeah, I try to be sincere, authentic, but I have no prescription for that. No new medicine, no new drug. Poetry and writing is sometimes like karaoke for me. You sing old songs, you sing new songs. You sing what you must. Some people have talent, but not substance/feeling. Some people sing terribly, just downright awfully, whatever sad song they have picked, but by god you can really tell that they mean it, and there’s something beautiful in that for me, in missing the notes, hitting the notes, but meaning every single one of them from the heart, or the hurt, or the love, or the self, or whatever other word you use to describe that strange place we inhabit inside.