Poetry reaches into places in us that we are suppose to ignore or mistrust, that are perceived as subversive or non-useful, in what is fast becoming known as global culture.

Love, our subject: we've trained it like ivy to our walls.

We might possess every technological resource... but if our language is inadequate, our vision remains formless, our thinking and feeling are still running in the old cycles, our process may be 'revolutionary' but not transformative.

I am an instrument in the shape/ of a woman trying to translate pulsations/ into images for the relief of the body/ and the reconstruction of the mind.

There is no 'the truth,' 'a truth'--truth is not one thing, or even a system. It is an increasing complexity.

Reality, the oppressor's tongue.

These scars bear witness but whether to repair or to destruction I no longer know.