If Sex Is A War,

All Women Are Misfits. We Do Not Fit Into This World Without Amputations.

We Lie In Each Other's Arms Eyes Shut And Fingers Open And All The Colors Of The World Pass Through Our Bodies Like Strings Of Fire.

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 Pitcher Cries For Water To Carry And A Person For Work That Is Real.

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment.