Some have speculated that the way [Albert] Camus died made his theories on absurdity a self-fulfilling prophecy. Others would say it was the triumphant meaningful way he lived that allowed him to rise heroically above absurdity.

I called it a baptism in flaming ink that forced me to shed my shyness about recognizing myself as a poet and to accept the fact that life had never given me any choice in the matter. And then I had to discover exactly what that meant.

Someone had to embrace positive beginnings before anyone could celebrate successful conclusions or continuations.

You are the hybrids of golden worlds and ages splendidly conceived.

Hope drowned in shadows emerges fiercely splendid–– boldly angelic.

In an age when nations and individuals routinely exchange murder for murder, when the healing grace of authentic spirituality is usurped by the divisive politics of religious organizations, and when broken hearts bleed pain in darkness without the relief of compassion, the voice of an exceptional poet producing exceptional work is not something the world can afford to dismiss.

With my ninth mind I resurrect my first and dance slow to the music of my soul made new.