We Seek Not Rest But Transformation. We

Remember That Every Son Had A Mother Whose Beloved Son He Was, And Every Woman Had A Mother Whose Beloved Son She Wasn't.

The Incidence Of Violent Brand-loyalty To One's Own Current Dogma Has Risen.

The Politics Of The Exile Are Fever, Revenge, Daydream, Theater Of The Aging Convalescent. You Wait In The Wings And Rehearse. You Wait And Wait.

Every Poet Has A Certain Amount Of "stuff." That's What You Draw From For Imagery. The More Stuff You Know Well, Not Simply Intellectually But Sensually, Emotionally, Intimately, The Wider The Pool From Which You Draw.

The Moon Is Always Female And So Am I Although Often In The Vale Of Razorblades I Have Wished I Could Put On And Take Off My Sex Like A Dress And Why Not?