The Universe Unfolds In The

Poet: Gardener Of Epitaphs.

A Civilization That Denies Death Ends By Denying Life.

Contemporary Man Has Rationalized The Myths, But He Has Not Been Able To Destroy Them.

No One Behind, No One Ahead. The Path The Ancients Cleared Has Closed. And The Other Path, Everyone's Path, Easy And Wide, Goes Nowhere. I Am Alone And Find My Way.

The Beloved Is Already In Our Being, As Thirst And "otherness." Being Is Eroticism. Inspiration Is That Strange Voice That Takes Man Out Of Himself To Be Every Thing That He Is, Everything That He Desires; Another Body, Another Being. Beyond, Outside Of Me, In The Green And Gold Thicket, Among The Tremulous Branches, Sings The Unknown. It Calls To Me.