I Can't Sleep. There Is

I Go About The World, Hand Outstretched, And In The Stadiums I Plead: 'a Pretty Move, For The Love Of God.' And When Good Soccer Happens, I Give Thanks For The Miracle And I Don't Give A Damn Which Team Or Country Performs It.

Our Effectiveness Depends On Our Capacity To Be Audacious And Astute, Clear And Appealing. I Would Hope That We Can Create A Language More Fearless And Beautiful Than That Used By Conformist Writers To Greet The Twilight.

In 1492, The Natives Discovered They Were Indians, Discovered They Lived In America, Discovered They Were Naked, Discovered That The Sin Existed, Discovered They Owed Allegiance To A King And Kingdom From Another World And A God From Another Sky, And That This God Had Invented The Guilty And The Dress, And Had Sent To Be Burnt Alive Who Worships The Sun The Moon The Earth And The Rain That Wets It.

The Human Rainbow Had Been Mutilated By Machismo, Racism, Militarism And A Lot Of Other Isms, Who Have Been Terribly Killing Our Greatness, Our Possible Greatness, Our Possible Beauty.

If The Grape Is Made Of Wine, Then Perhaps We Are The Words That Tell Who We Are