I Am Unlikely To Trust A Sentence

I Write Because I Hate. A Lot. Hard.

It’s Not The Word Made Flesh We Want In Writing, In Poetry And Fiction, But The Flesh Made Word

Of Course There Is Enough To Stir Our Wonder Anywhere; There's Enough To Love, Anywhere, If One Is Strong Enough, If One Is Diligent Enough, If One Is Perceptive, Patient, Kind Enough -- Whatever It Takes.

I Cannot Walk Under The Wires. The Sparrows Scatter Like Handfuls Of Gravel. Really, Wires Are Voices In Thin Strips. They Are Words Wound In Cables. Bars Of Connection.

For Me, The Short Story Is Not A Character Sketch, A Mouse Trap, An Epiphany, A Slice Of Suburban Life. It Is The Flowering Of A Symbol Center. It Is A Poem Grafted Onto Sturdier Stock.