As her sons have seen her: the mother in patriarchy: controlling, erotic, castrating, heart-suffering, guilt-ridden, and guilt-provoking; a marble brow, a huge breast, an avid cave; between her legs snakes, swamp-grass, or teeth; on her lap a helpless infant or a martyred son. She exists for one purpose: to bear and nourish the son.

A revolutionary poem will not tell you who or when to kill, what and when to burn, or even how to theorize. It reminds you... where and when and how you are living and might live, it is a wick of desire.

Change is not a threat to your life, but an invitation to live.

Art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds it hostage.

Every journey into the past is complicated by delusions, false memories, false namings of real events.

It's as if, in the mother's eyes, her smile, her stroking touch, the child first reads the message:'You are there!'

There is nothing revolutionary whatsoever about the control of women's bodies by men. The woman's body is the terrain on which patriarchy is erected.