Go To The Well Of Deep Love

The Ripe Fignow That You Live Here In My Chest,anywhere We Sit Is A Mountaintop.and Those Other Images,which Have Enchanted Peoplelike Porcelain Dolls From China,which Have Made Men And Women Weepfor Centuries, Even Those Have Changed Now.what Used To Be Pain Is A Lovely Benchwhere We Can Rest Under The Roses.a Left Hand Has Become A Right.a Dark Wall, A Window.a Cushion In A Shoe Heel,the Leader Of The Community!now Silence. What We Sayis Poison To Someand Nourishing To Others.what We Say Is A Ripe Fig,but Not Every Bird That Flieseats Figs.

The Meaning Of Poetry Has No Sureness Of Direction; Is Like The Sling, It Is Not Under Control.

The Love Religion Is All That Is Written Here.

Looking Up Gives Light, Although At First It Makes You Dizzy.

Sadness To Me Is The Happiest Time, When A Shining City Rises From The Ruins Of My Drunken Mind. Those Times When I'm Silent And Still As The Earth, The Thunder Of My Roar Is Heard Across The Universe.