It Is My Heart That's

I Can Hardly Wait For Tomorrow, It Means A New Life For Me Each And Every Day.

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

One Critic Wrote . . . That My Poems Sounded As Though They Had Been Translated From The Hungarian. I Don't Know Why, But Somehow That Made Me Feel Quite Lighthearted.

Deftly They Opened The Brain Of A Child, And It Was Full Of Flying Dreams.

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.