Other-love Is Writing's First Name.

I Do Believe In Poetry. I Believe That There Are Creatures Endowed With The Power To Put Things Together And Bring Them Back To Life

And I Was Afraid. She Frightens Me Because She Can Knock Me Down With A Word. Because She Does Not Know That Writing Is Walking On A Dizzying Silence Setting One Word After The Other On Emptiness. Writing Is Miraculous And Terrifying Like The Flight Of A Bird Who Has No Wings But Flings Itself Out And Only Gets Wings By Flying.

Me Too, I Make Do, I Anoint What Cannot Be Fixed.

She Alone Dares And Wishes To Know From Within, Where She, The Outcast, Has Never Ceased To Hear The Resonance Of Fore Language. She Lets The Other Language Speak - The Language Of 1,000 Tongues Which Knows Neither Enclosure Nor Death. To Life She Refuses Nothing. Her Language Does Not Contain, It Carries; It Does Not Hold Back; It Makes Possible.

Censor The Body And You Censor Breath And Speech At The Same Time. Write Yourself. Your Body Must Be Heard.