We, who live the most preposterous of lives, laugh with our secret thoughts.

The poet is a fool who does not embrace his father- the great father that was banished by the witchery of clever minds. The father who is a light path from the heavens to the small square of latitude we move in. The father who drives weakness from the son and gives strength to the daughter.

What is embedded in us that pins us to the corner of our shrunken latitude?

The space between significance’s provide a field of play- ah, but the game leads either to heaven or hell.

We enter into those spaces with great vitality and believe, for a moment, that the world was created solely for ourselves. We met women in those spaces and they demand our secrets. What! Those? Never! Praise our significance women! Praise, praise, praise or you will get nothing.

Among the wealthy, entertainment is a lull between fits of sleep and eating.

A culture can drown in laughter as easily as it can drown in its tears. The piercing sounds of our laughter may be propitious questions of the spirit incubating some needed dream.

Terrible American who can not define himself in relation to his dream. Oh, terrible American who is frozen in the fantasies of someone else.

There are two crucial moments for the poet and thinker. One is when he is absorbing the information and knowledge of his culture. The other is when he is emptying it; the beginning and ending of something. Does one see the vessel that is open at either end and the energy that is rolling from one to the other?

We pray for the day when the ego flies with its burdens, plucked from our weary heads; hanging from its beak like intestines. The disease is lifted from us and we are healthy again breathing the air the world will not permit itself from breathing.