I love rings, but I can't wear them. I mean, look at my knuckles. My fingers and joints are so swollen from years of playing. That means no wedding band, either. Luckily, I have a very understanding wife.

My relationship with aging is cozy. I'm not trying to play 29 and holding on with white knuckles, you know?

I definitely have a relationship with God for myself, and yes I grew up that way, and I choose to keep the relationship that way. It's real; that's my balance. Sundays, I was in church, and Monday through Friday, I was with the knuckleheads having a little fun.

When I first started training Tae Kwon Do, it was more just for discipline. My brother and I were two knuckleheads and my mom being a single mother wanted us to get more discipline somewhere other than her yelling at us. But I had no visions at all or aspirations of going from Tae Kwon Do into mixed martial arts.

I broke two knuckles in my right hand when I gave Jean-Claude Van Damme an attitude adjustment. I got nothing except a medical bill.

You have to really be courageous about your instincts and your ideas. Otherwise you'll just knuckle under, and things that might have been memorable will be lost.

I used to lie between cool, clean sheets at night after I'd had a bath, after I had washed my hair and scrubbed my knuckles and finger-nails and teeth. Then I could lie quite still in the dark with my face to the window with the trees in it, and talk to God.

I remember it was Dr. Seuss' birthday, and I got to read to the little ones and that was just an awesome experience. I remember when I was a young knucklehead and having that access to an after-school program in my community. It's something that hits home to me and something I wanted to always be a part of.

Advice? I don't have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you're writing, you're a writer. Write like you're a Goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there's no chance for a pardon. Write like you're clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you've got just one last thing to say, like you're a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God's sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we're not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don't. Who knows, maybe you're one of the lucky ones who doesn't have to.

You are evidence of your mother's strength, especially if you are a rebellious knucklehead and regardless she has always maintained her sanity.

You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don't need a God. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us. Everything we do is secret. Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from. It will be the stuff of legend, endless discussion and limitless Inspirational for the brave of heart. It's you and me in this room, on this floor. Beyond life, beyond morality. We are gleaming animals painted in moonlit sweat glow. Our eyes turn to jewels and everything we do is an example of spontaneous perfection. I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams against my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch. The time I annihilated while I waited like a man doing a life sentence. Now you're here and everything we touch explodes, bursts into bloom or burns to ash. History atomizes and negates itself with our every shared breath. I need you like life needs life. I want you bad like a natural disaster. You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know.

There are two theories on hitting the knuckleball. Unfortunately neither of them works.

Oddly I do have a problem with authority. I find it very difficult to knuckle down and follow rules. Which are the classic symptoms of someone who has a troubled relationship with their father. And yet I never had a problem with my father.

I once saw a picture in the paper of John Hegley with 'poet' written on his knuckles and I thought that was pretty cool so I was quite up front about it.

I used to lie between cool clean sheets at night after I'd had a bath after I had washed my hair and scrubbed my knuckles and finger-nails and teeth. Then I could lie quite still in the dark with my face to the window with the trees in it and talk to God.