There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only/ eyes in all heads,/ to be looked out of.

The poem, for me, is simply the first sound realized in the modality of being.

We all want what's been suddenly disallowed.

I hope you're representing the devil's advocate.

Atlantis will rise again.

You can read everybody. It's not even interesting to tell the truth because to some extent it's false.

I sound like Homer. I mean Winslow Homer.