I Write A Lot By Sound. One

Like I'm Dragging Bundles Of Old Clothes? I'm Carrying Artifacts That Breathe Fire. I'm Talking About A Language Of Smoke. These Are Three-dimensional Creatures That Can Mate. I'd No More Leave Them Go By The Side Of The Trail Than I Would My Child. I'll Carry Them Until Someone Amputates My Arms.

They Will Say I Smoked Cigarettes And Marijuana, Cursed Hoarse As A Crow In All My Languages, And Loved Morphine And Demerol And Tequila And Pulque, Women And Men. I Will Shrug My Illusion Of Shoulders And Answer That I Am A Water Woman, Not A Vessel, Not Something You Can Sail Or Charter. I Am Instead The Tributary, The River, The Fluid Source, And The Sea Itself. I Am All Her Rainy Implications. And What Do You, With Your Rusted Compass, Know Of Love?

To Be One Woman, Truly, Wholly, Is To Be All Women. Tend One Garden And You Will Birth Worlds.

Just Being In A Room With Myself Is Almost More Stimulation Than I Can Bear.

The Peruvian Flute Music Is . . . Cool. In This Music, They Have Not Yet Invented The Industrial Revolution That Leads To Excessive Punctuality Or The Failed Experiment They Call The Nuclear Family. This Is The Music Of Elements, Untarnished, Unrehearsed.