I Am This Space My Body Believes

I’ve Been Here Before, Dreaming Myself Backwards, Among Grappling Hooks Of Light. True To The Seasons, I’ve Lived Every Word Spoken. Did I Walk Into Someone’s Nightmare?

We Have To Embrace The Good Over The Bad. That Has To Be One's Personal Project.

Poetry Is A Process Of Getting Back To The Unconscious. Hence, I Am Always Writing-even When I'm Not Facing The White Space. I Feel Writers Are Like Reservoirs Of Images. We Take In What Is Around Us.

Blue Is The Insides Of Something Mysterious And Lonely. I'd Look At Fish And Birds, Thinking The Sky And Water Colored Them. The First Abyss Is Blue. An Artist Must Go Beyond The Mercy Of Satin Or Water-from A Gutty Hue To That Which Is Close To Royal Purple. All Seasons And Blossoms Inbetween. Lavender. Theatrical And Outrageous Electric. Almost Gray. True And False Blue. Water And Oil. The Gas Jet Breathing In Oblivion. The Unstruck Match. The Blue Of Absence. The Blue Of Deep Presence. The Insides Of Something Perfect.

Tonight I Feel The Stars Are Out To Use Me For Target Practice.