I Bleed My Bones, Their Marrow To

A Lively Understandable Spirit Once Entertained You. It Will Come Again. Be Still. Wait.

I Always Felt Mean, Jogging Back Over The Logging Road,as If I Had Broken The Natural Order Of Things In That Swampland;disturbed Some Rhythm, Old And Of Vast Importance,by Pulling Off Flesh From The Living Planet;as If I Had Committed, Against The Whole Scheme Of Life, A Desecration.

Be Sure That Whatever You Are Is You.

Time Marks Us While We Are Marking Time.

Should We Say The Self, Once Perceived, Becomes The Soul?