The Politics Of The Exile

Pain Is A Forcing Sieve That Turns Me To Gruel.

Only When We Break The Mirror And Climb Into Our Vision, Only When We Are The Wind Together Streaming And Singing, Only In The Dream We Become With Our Bones For Spears, We Are Real At Last And Wake.

On This Twelfth Day Of My Diet I Would Rather Die Satiated Than Slim.

The People I Love The Best, Jump Into Work Head First Without Dallying In The Shallows.

Suppose That A Person Writes What She Must. That Is Only The First Step Of Becoming A Writer. The Work Must Survive The Moment Of Creation. It Must Get Out To An Audience. She Or He Must Dare To Show The Work. She Must Risk Ridicule, Misunderstanding, Scandal, Condemnation, & What's Often Worse, None Of The Above: Silence. No Attention At All.