in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

he threw up his hands and wrote the Universe dont exist and died to prove it

The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstacy is holy!

I never dreamed the sea so deep, The earth so dark; so long my sleep, I have become another child. I wake to see the world go wild.

We love to be hurt and we love to have our unhealing wounds opened and reopened again: we sit staring in the mirror of art, fascinated by our own deformities.

Let go of the spirit of the departed, and continue the celebration of your own life.

The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.